First Impressions
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: Sherlock Holmes isn't asexual. That's just what he tells people. It's easier to explain than 'completely socially-unable homosexual' . Events of the series from Sherlock and Watson's POV. (Sherlock first, then Watson.) Also delves into Watson's personal history. UPDATE: Continues through reunion of the boys and the growth of their relationship. (In charater, no smut)
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note: I've gone through and corrected all the mistakes and typos I know of. If you find more, send me a PM and I'll go back and fix them!**_

* * *

Sherlock stood in the living room of his flat, fingers steepled, musing. His flat-mate - the one he'd only met a few months ago - was on his mind. John Watson intrigued him, unexpectedly. When he'd met Doctor Watson by chance at St. Bart's Hospital lab, he'd thought little of the encounter. The man had appeared average - former military. Upright, polite, dull. The psychosomatic limp was mildly interesting, but he'd seen similar afflictions before. John had the usual skeptical reaction when Sherlock had begun deducing things about him as if out of thin air. Nothing remarkable. Nothing awful. He'd make a decent flat-mate.

He found the doctor reasonably likeable after spending a short while with him, exploring the new flat. Nowhere near as clever as he'd like, but then no one ever was. John was impressed with Sherlock's talent and he refrained from the usual colorful terms like "freak" or "lunatic".

Still, when Sherlock had noticed the man appeared to be feeling out a relationship over dinner together, he'd uncomfortably balked. Seeing a flat-mate romantically? Did he look that stupid? Sherlock couldn't maintain a friendship, let alone a serious relationship. _A boyfriend? Psh_. That was never going to happen - he'd already made his peace with this fact years ago. He certainly wasn't going to risk a good rooming arrangement over something as fleeting and dangerous as sentimental attachments. Besides, he barely knew this man, and given the conversation that followed shortly after, it appeared he'd misunderstood the intention anyway. Just conversation after all.

That had been before Scotland Yard invaded the flat on a trumped up 'drug bust' while they were out, and Sherlock had stumbled across a way to track down the serial killer cabbie who'd been forcing passengers to commit suicide. Unable to resist a puzzle, when the murderer had offered to show him how he did it by taking Sherlock as his next victim, the detective had gotten in the car without a word to anyone. In retrospect, he'd forgotten that the mobile tracking that had led him to the killer in the first place was still running, and that Watson was still sitting with it in their flat after he left.

Sherlock was about to swallow one of the murderer's potentially poisoned capsules, unable to resist the challenge, when a bullet broke through the window behind him from somewhere across the courtyard outside and hit the cabbie with deadly accuracy. The murderer had been dead within minutes.

Someone had saved his life, but at the time he hadn't known who. The shooter was gone by the time he reached the window to look out. It wasn't until later, after Scotland Yard had arrived to do something _useful_ for a change, and Sherlock had been using deduction to determine the identity of the shooter for Lestrade, that it hit him. Standing behind the police tape, innocently looking around was John Watson. He fit every criteria. Steady hands- an army doctor, he'd be used to shooting under stress. An excellent marksman, because he'd been trained. He'd had a reason to be there that night, and a reason to keep Sherlock alive. At that moment, he'd seen the doctor in a whole new light.

He closed his eyes, thinking deeply. John was attractive enough, but that wasn't what captivated his attention. The doctor's face and figure were not remarkable, but he _was_ likeable. Sandy blonde hair, cropped close in military style. Dark blue eyes that held a remarkable sincerity, which he had not noticed particularly at first. Short, slightly stocky, muscular. There was something comforting about John. A nurturing presence - probably the reason he'd become a doctor in the first place. Sherlock imagined he made a very good one at that. Something in Sherlock Holmes trusted Watson implicitly, especially after the cabbie serial-killer incident, even as his mind actively rebelled against it.

He was a sociopath. A detective. His brother liked to tell him he had any one of a variety of forms of autism, depending on the day - though Sherlock refused to be subjected to tests. He hated anyone tinkering with his brain. He didn't trust people. He didn't have the time or the ability to be close to anyone… but his mind kept wandering away from case-work to study his flat-mate, no matter how many times he hauled it away.

'A boyfriend'… was he really that obvious? He mused on it a moment. Generally he just told people he was asexual, as it was simpler to explain than 'completely socially-unable homosexual' though that was the more accurate description. He was sure that women didn't register on his radar at all, but the men that did were either stupid, cruel to him, not interested, or some combination. He'd turned to the morphine several years ago as a balm for his emotional wounds, but gave it up to pursue detective work. More constructive. Better for his brain. It kept him busy and he didn't have to think about mundane things like loneliness. He didn't pursue men and they didn't pursue him. Not once they got to know him, anyway.

But John did, after a fashion. Not openly. But he stayed. Not only did he not move out the first time he found eyeballs marinating in the microwave, he seemed almost… fond… of Sherlock. Sherlock was floored to realize, as time went on and they worked together more and more… that John had become protective of him. Anytime something happened, an explosion, assassins… John never failed to ask if he was alright. A small gesture, but it stood in stark contrast to the next closest thing he had, which was Mycroft occasionally making sure he hadn't blown himself up recently. And John wasn't just asking as a courtesy… Sherlock was bad at reading emotions, he knew, but he could compensate for it to a degree. He could, with effort he typically reserved for much more useful things, puzzle out what was meant. John was sincere. Concerned.

Sherlock found himself smiling more and more in the doctor's presence, in spite of himself. He found excuses to keep his new friend nearby. _A friend… who would've thought?_ He didn't let himself consider what else John could be to him. John had made it clear he wasn't gay. Abundantly. Sherlock had studied the denials carefully, and while he was fairly sure there was more to them than their face value, he didn't pry. If he pushed for more, John would leave. And he'd be alone again. Better to have what he could get than reach for more and lose it all.

Things only got more complicated when Moriarty came into the picture.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stared, confused. John was acting odd… what was he even doing here? His voice sounded mechanical and strained. Fear. What was he afraid of-

John met his eyes miserably, pulling open the thick down jacket he wore to reveal an array of explosives. The light that danced off the nearby swimming pool reflected serenely across the deadly vest he wore.

_'I'm sorry' w_as clear on his face. He continued miserably parroting words apparently fed to him through an ear-piece until Sherlock couldn't stand the taunting and started shouting at the empty room.

As Moriarty emerged from the other end of the room, gleefully reveling in the 'game' they were involved in, Sherlock resisted the urge to react without thinking. That wouldn't help him or John. He didn't know how much this person knew about the two of them. He wasn't sure how much of his mind showed up on his face, but he didn't want to give anything away if he could help it.

Moriarty was unpredictable and admittedly intriguing. Sherlock pulled a gun and leveled it at him, but got virtually no reaction. They sparred at each other verbally for a few minutes. Word-games, subtle one-up-manship. Under other circumstances, Sherlock might've even found the mind games exhilarating, but not when his only friend could explode at any moment. The fact that the explosion would take all three of them with it barely registered. He risked a glance at John. Moriarty noticed. A red dot from a sniper's site lingered over the vest, squarely in the center of John's chest. If Sherlock pulled the trigger, he could kill Moriarty, but the sniper would kill John. He needed to turn the tables, but how?

His mind was whirring furiously. He kept talking, trying to get a fix on Moriarty. Trying to find some kind of hand-hold, some leverage- letting his mind work in the background. A way out- there had to be one. His eyes flickered to John and then away. "Are you alright?"

"You can talk… _Johnny Boy._" Moriarty leered. John nodded faintly at Sherlock. A slight, uneasy motion. They hadn't roughed him up much. Probably just held him at gunpoint.

Sherlock pulled the coveted flash-drive, loaded with top-secret plans, out of his jacket pocket. He'd hoped to use it only as bait, but there wasn't any choice now. "Take it." He handed it over, expecting that to be the end of it. He'd recover them later, when John wasn't slathered in plastic explosives.

Moriarty stepped past John and took the drive. He kissed it gleefully then abruptly threw the drive into the pool. If not that, what could he want-?

John moved suddenly, lunging into Moriarty's back and trying to use him as a human shield. They wouldn't dare shoot with their boss in the way.

"SHERLOCK RUN!"

He didn't. He stood, gun trained on Moriarty's face. Moriarty wasn't concerned.

Sherlock realized after a moment that the sniper's site was aimed at his head instead. John, looking defeated, released his grip and backed up, raising his hands in surrender again. Sherlock fought a tremor of a sentimental something. John had just tried to use his own life as insurance to let Sherlock escape. And he'd released Moriarty immediately when Sherlock was threatened instead… Sherlock decided he'd process it later. No time now.

Moriarty was thoroughly enjoying himself, advantage firmly in his hands. His eyes glittered with a crazed malice.

"If you don't stop prying, I will _burn_ you. I will _burn_…the _heart_ out of you." _Charming_. Sherlock inwardly rolled his eyes. Outwardly, he favored the madman with a cold glare. He allowed himself a moment to start a mental list of the horrible things he should do to Moriarty for this.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't _have_ one." He forced himself to avoid looking anywhere near John. _Don't attract attention to him. Let him be just another acquaintance as far as Moriarty is concerned_.

"But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty's mouth twitched into a malevolent perversion of a friendly smile.

Sherlock's eyes flicked involuntarily to John for less than a moment. Moriarty smirked. Sherlock hoped he hadn't noticed the glance, but the sick feeling in his stomach indicated otherwise. As casually as if they'd run into each other at the office, Moriarty abruptly turned and left, his sniper apparently going with him. Sherlock kept the gun trained on Moriarty's back until the door slammed behind him, just in case.

The instant they were out of sight, his attention shifted to John. The gun was dropped and promptly forgotten as he dove for the latch on the vest, yanking it and the coat off simultaneously, as fast as humanly possible. His voice was laced with an involuntarily frantic note.

"Are you alright?" A mumbled reply. "**_Are you alright_**?!" he demanded at the top of his lungs, panting with the fear that he could stop repressing now that they were alone. John answered him satisfactorily. He seemed extremely shaken, but not hurt. The doctor promptly collapsed against a wall, trembling and trying to catch his breath, as Sherlock scrambled to check for any remaining gunmen. Watson sat half-crouched on the floor, trying to regain his composure.

After a few moments, he looked up to where Sherlock was pacing distractedly back and forth in front of him, absentmindly rubbing the back of his head with the butt of the gun he'd since recovered.

"Are _you_ alright?"

"Me?" Sherlock realized his voice sounded unnaturally high, and the words were tumbling out too fast, but he didn't care. "Yeah, fine, I'm fine… fine." They were both alive. Somehow, they'd come out ok.

He stopped pacing for a second to cast an admiring glance at John.

"That… t-thing, that you did… that you offered to do-… that was… g-good." He realized he was stammering like a complete idiot, but the sentiment was sincere. He hoped John didn't notice his hands shaking furiously. John snickered that he hoped no-one had seen Sherlock ripping clothing off of him, or they might talk. Sherlock could care less what people said.

They were laughing at the madness of the whole situation when Moriarty had returned abruptly, apparently having decided at random to kill them instead. He'd also apparently brought several more snipers with him. Sherlock decided to nix the kinder half of his 'horrible things I should do to Moriarty for this' list, and started mentally adding much more creative items to it.

Random chance and threatening to set off the nearby bomb vest himself had saved them, but the whole incident had unfortunately attracted Moriarty's attention to John. Sherlock had the sick feeling he'd given too much away, but Moriarty was impossible to read. He'd have to hope he'd been less obvious than he feared. Targeting John _would_ get a reaction out of him, certainly… and that wasn't a precedent he wanted to set.


	3. Chapter 3

The world looked dizzyingly small from up here. If Sherlock hadn't been staring death in the face, it would've been interesting to take it in for a few moments. He was out of options.

He'd burned through plans A through C since emerging onto the rooftop. Plan A had been to talk Moriarty down. Find a weakness and use it against him. Obviously, that one hadn't worked. Plan B had been to play up the fear angle and let Moriarty see him beg. Put on a big show of weakness and submission. It galled him, but if it ended this… disaster, so be it. Unfortunately, Moriarty wasn't about to let him out that easily. He wanted a big finale and he had the leverage he needed. There were already guns trained on the only three people Sherlock cared a damn about, ready to pull the trigger if he didn't play along.

The potential victims: Mrs. Hudson- the warm, maternal landlady of their flat, who loved him like a son even when he was difficult and childish… or when he shot holes in the wall and stored severed feet in the fridge. Lestrade- the police inspector who had always given him the benefit of the doubt- even as much as he was able in the last few days. Sherlock was aware Lestrade had intentionally gone easier on him than he had to in all of this. … And then there was John. Of course Moriarty would use John against him...

Sherlock had tried to force him to stop the game then. Tried to get into Moriarty's head and make him think he'd already been beaten. It had almost worked. And then Moriarty had put a bullet through his own brain to prevent it. The game, then, was on - just as Moriarty had wanted it.

Panic threatened to set in. Sherlock struggled to breathe. The rooftop spun around him but he fought down the vertigo. Had to think. Too much at stake. There was a plan D. It was a slap-dash plan and there was a chance it wouldn't work, but it was all there was left. It was that or nothing.

He stepped up onto the roof ledge and watched the expected cab pulling up on the street below as he dialed the number. John stepped out, phone to his ear, already running towards the hospital. Sherlock stopped him, begged him to turn around and go back to where he'd been. There was no way to know where the assassin was waiting. No way to know what they'd do…If the shooter saw his target getting away, he might get jumpy and just take the shot anyway. Sherlock couldn't risk it.

Moriarty wanted a show. He wanted Sherlock's reputation destroyed. He wanted Sherlock destroyed. When Moriarty had threatened to burn the heart out of him, Sherlock had been annoyed at the theatrical absurdity of the threat, but it made sense now. He had a choice between traumatizing his best friend… the man he loved, sacrificing the reputation he'd fought so hard to build, accepting the title of 'freak' and stepping into what could be certain death… or he could step down, save himself, probably restore his reputation… but he'd do it alone, haunted by the knowledge that everyone he cared for was dead. He had no doubt the gunmen were real. Moriarty wasn't THAT unpredictable.

He had to admit, it was an elegant trap. _Bravo. Rot in hell you brilliant, evil little bastard_. He glanced back at the slowly cooling corpse behind him. Not helpful. He turned away.

John was trying to talk him down, trying to convince him not to do what they both knew was coming. Sherlock's heart broke.

_"Friends protect people." _John had said this morning. Yes. They did. No matter what it took.

"I'm a fake." The words didn't hurt as much as he'd thought they would. Maybe they simply paled in comparison to the alternatives.

John didn't surprise him by not believing a word. John wasn't brilliant, but he wasn't stupid either. He thought he saw a desperate man at the end of his rope, and he was right about that. He just didn't know the real reason why.

"I made it all up." Tears started down his cheeks. Real tears. A rarity. He let them fall. It was easier than fighting them and it helped sell the scene for anyone watching with their finger on a trigger. He had to give them what they wanted. His voice felt thick and unwieldy in his throat.

"No one could be that clever."

"You could."

He half laughed, strangled with a mix of relief and back-breaking sadness. That was just like John. A tiny part of his brain smiled in spite of it all. To the very end, John believed in him.

He held the conversation out as long as he could, but it couldn't last forever. Gunmen would grow impatient. Someone might try to come up to stop him. John might…

"This phone call… it's my note. -That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?" He forced himself to keep his voice as steady as it could be. This was going to hurt John enough.

"Leave a note… when?"

"Goodbye John."

"No. Sherlock. No. No!" Sherlock hung up. And then, he stepped forward into thin air, and fell.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes watched his own funeral from a distance. Mycroft had helped, made arrangements as needed. He'd been in on the plan to a point. There was no love lost between the brothers, but neither wanted the other maimed or dead.

Mycroft had never seen his brother suffer so much, even though he'd escaped the fall more-or-less uninjured. Sherlock had had a hard childhood, family money not-withstanding. He had always been brilliant, but difficult. Petulant.

Their family was a cold one. Little affection expressed, emotional responses discouraged. Sherlock had never had a friend in his life until chance had put him in contact with a former army doctor. He'd gone through life alone, ostracized, feared, and sometimes even bitterly hated until that day.

Still, the pain on his brother's face now… watching the only people he loved hurt, and not being able to comfort them… or himself through them… That was something new altogether.

He began to regret not finding a way to intervene sooner. More directly.

Mycroft stood behind his brother now, underneath a distant tree, watching visitors as they approached the shiny black headstone that had been installed a few weeks earlier. He almost set a hand on Sherlock but thought better of it.

"I'll be waiting in the car, whenever you're ready…"

Sherlock didn't answer, but they both knew he'd heard. Mycroft let him be and left him alone.

Sherlock could hear everything the two of them said, even from a distance. Mrs. Hudson, arm in arm with John. She tried to cheer him up as best she could, listing all the annoying things Sherlock had done, all the frustrations he'd caused. It didn't work, but Sherlock could've kissed her for making the effort. He forced himself not to feel it when she too broke down and left the grave with tears in her eyes. And then there was only John.


	5. Chapter 5

"You… you told me once… that you weren't a hero-….Um there were times I didn't even think you were human- … But let me tell you this… You were… the best man… and the most human- human being- that I've ever known. And no one… will ever convince me… that you told me a lie. … There." John spat the last word almost defiantly. Daring the world to try. He paused, apparently struggling to find his words. He took a few steps closer, touching the headstone as if he expected it to disappear. It didn't. "I was… so alone." His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed the words out anyway "And I owe you so much." Sherlock heard him exhale slowly, trying to hold emotions in check. He felt his heart breaking all over again.

John turned away, withdrawing his hand from the stone and started to walk away. He paused abruptly, turning back. "-Please, there's just… just one more thing. One more miracle. For me." His eyes turned pleading and desperate. Sherlock started to take a step toward him and stopped himself.

If it were that easy, he'd be standing besides John now, getting punched in the face for scaring him half to death. He'd be hugging him whether John liked it or not, and he imagined John making jokes about how people would talk if they could see them now. Hot tears ran down Sherlock's face, though his expression never flickered. He let them fall.

John's voice reached him faintly from across the cemetery.

"Don't… be… dead." The words were strained, too high pitched. He almost hadn't managed to get out the last word at all. _Dead._ John's voice cracked noticeably. "Would you do that…? Just for me- just stop it… stop … this." He stared at the stone in silence, seemingly trying to will it to answer him. To make Sherlock Holmes appear.

Sherlock wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He couldn't be there to take this pain away. The least he could do was bear witness. John's face fell into his hands. A small sob escaped him. With an obvious effort he pulled himself upright, drawing himself up into a sharp attention. He nodded a salute to the grave and turned on his heel, marching away faster than was strictly necessary and picking up speed as he went.

Sherlock watched him walk away for as long as he could bear it, then turned away.

When he got into the car beside Mycroft he sensed the deafening noise of the words unspoken. He glanced at his brother, then looked away, out the window. Mycroft wished he could be nurturing, protective. Everything he was told a brother should be. It wouldn't have been enough to heal the pain in his little brother's eyes, but it would be better than the nothing he was doing now.

Silence dominated the ride back to Holmes House.


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson?" John glanced up from his laptop as his land-lady came through the living room door. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" He'd moved in less than a month ago but he'd already chased down several dangerous criminals with his new flat-mate. It was taking a little getting used to. Sherlock was currently out berating Scotland Yard about… god knows. Some evidence they'd touched or something. He wasn't at home anyway.

"I don't see why not. Do you want some decorating advice? I know Sherlock's not much for it. He's not got the head for it, bless him." Mrs. Hudson seated herself at one end of the sofa, setting a tea-tray down between them.

"Ah, thank you." He sipped at the tea. "No. No… actually, I was wondering… Sherlock… is he always so… well- y'know… exciteable?" He mimicked one of Sherlock's hyperactive mannerisms.

"Oh I'm sure I don't know." Mrs. Hudson shrugged, setting her tea-spoon down neatly across the saucer on her lap. "I've known him for… oh 6 years, is it? Yes, something like that. And I still never know what he'll do next, that one." There was genuine, affectionate warmth in her voice when she talked about Sherlock, he noticed. Like the spastic detective was her beloved – if exceedingly trying – nephew.

"It's just… well don't take this the wrong way but, everyone seems to think we're… er… more than flat-mates." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him quizzically for a moment then smiled indulgently and leaned across to pat his arm. "It's alright dear, I think you're lovely together. I'm sure Sherlock's very fond of you, even if he doesn't say so." She winked knowingly.

"What- no! No! We're not- I'm not-" He sighed, trying to be patient. "I'm. _not_. gay."

Mrs. Hudson just smiled sweetly and turned back to her tea. "I'm not going to judge you dear. Like I say, we've got all kinds 'round here."

John gave up with a sigh and stared down into his mug. Why wouldn't anyone EVER listen to him when he tried to explain this? He wasn't gay… he wasn't.


	7. Chapter 7

"Dad, I got my letter." John Watson - turned 18 last Tuesday - stood in the doorway to his parent's bedroom. His father glanced up.

"Good man." His father vanished behind his newspaper again.

There was a long silence. A worrying one. Some unnamed tension laced the air.

"So.. uhm… I thought… I have some money saved up from last summer- I thought we could go out and celebrate tonight… I could call Harry and see if she wants to join us later…"

"John." His father's voice was tight. That didn't bode well. "Your sister just called from Dublin." _Harry had called…? Why was she- _"We uh… we won't be seeing her at the holidays for a bit. She's got some things to … to sort out and we had a bit of a row about it on the phone."

It was the drinking. It had to be. She'd been doing well for a few weeks, last he talked to her. He suppressed the angry teenager in him that hated her for taking away his moment. All his young life he'd been struggling to get accepted at St. Bart's for medical school and now that it'd happened, here she was stealing his thunder. Again.

"What's wrong? Is she off the wagon again?"

His father snorted derisively."I wish it was that simple. I can deal with a drunk." John eyed him uncertainly. "She's decided she's gay, John."

_Shit. Shit shit shit. _John had known that Harriet was a lesbian for the last two years. She'd blurted it out unexpectedly over the phone at 3 am once when she'd called him in tears after a bitter argument with her girlfriend of the time. John somehow doubted now was a good time to bring that up.

"Until she comes to her senses, I thought it better if we stay out of each other's way."

John looked miserably at the floor. He hated Harriet sometimes, but he felt for her now. She'd been scared to death to tell their father, and rightly so.

"Oh." Was all he said.

"I'm sorry, John. Didn't mean to take the wind out of your sails. Come on, let's get something to eat. It'll be my treat. You've worked hard for this. Congratulations, son - I mean it."

John had tried to smile, but his celebratory mood was gone. Poor Harry. … Poor him.


	8. Chapter 8

John stared at the picture on his laptop screen, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his dorm-mate wasn't around. He was alone.

He liked girls, he reminded himself. A lot. But this…

The photo was of a trim, muscular man, with no shirt on, sprawled out suggestively across satin sheets. He told himself it was disgusting girl porn. Just for lonely ones to get off to. But he hadn't clicked away from it. He couldn't quite convince himself to.

He hovered the cursor over the tiny 'x' button at the top of the window, then glanced around the room again and turned the computer so no-one could see the screen if they wandered in. He scrolled down and clicked "more images" instead. After a few minutes of browsing he closed the page and stared blankly at the screen, now filled with generic email.

"Shit." He rubbed at his eyes, leaning dejectedly back in his chair. So that incident in the quad hadn't been a fluke. The tingle when that bloke from his biology class accidentally brushed his hand. He fancied men too. The twinge of attraction, a warm little sensation that started in the pit of his stomach was undeniable.

He thought back to last summer, when he'd come home and heard about the falling out between Harry and his dad. They still weren't speaking.

"Shit." He swore again, closing the laptop and groaning with frustration. His dad had been sick a lot lately, his age beginning to show. John couldn't imagine he'd take news well, that his son was –

Well, he just wouldn't tell him. Wouldn't tell anyone.

John fancied girls too; he'd just ignore the feelings he got when the Rugby team practiced nearby and pretend he was only watching the cheerleaders. Simplest thing in the world.

"Shit." _Why did he lie to himself?_ He opened the site again and stared at the photo. _This wasn't going to be easy…_


	9. Chapter 9

"Captain?" John looked up from his lunch. A woman in a khaki uniform skirt held out a thick manila folder. "Your orders have just come through. You ship out in a month. Good luck, sir." She'd saluted crisply as he took the folder and returned the salute, absently thumbing through the documents inside. When he looked up, she was gone.

Afghanistan, eh? Well, he'd wanted to serve and protect. There was a hell of a lot of serving and protecting to do out there, he supposed. _Cheers_. He raised his pint glass in a toast to the powers that be. Off to war then.

* * *

He'd just returned from the surgery, covered in a blotchy layer various soldiers' blood, weary to the bone, when a call came through for him. He stripped out of his filthy scrubs and into a clean(ish) set of fatigues. Figured he'd get a call right when he most wanted to get some sleep. Still, it was nice to hear from his dad or sister every now and then. He heaved his boots on and shuffled across the hot, dry sand to the mess tent. Once inside, a young sergeant offered him the satellite phone. It was Harry on the line this time. The sergeant disappeared, off to do other business.

"Harry, hi. How've you been?"

"John… it's dad. I've just found out."

His tiredness vanished.

"Oh my god, what's wrong?"

"They've, um… they've just found him. Heart attack I guess." She sounded like she'd been crying. Harry had often screamed about how much she hated their father, but that didn't mean she wanted him dead. "Looks like he went in his sleep in front of the telly…"

"… Oh." John's hand shook slightly. He ignored it. "Are you going to be ok? I can't – I feel like I should be there to help but-"

"Easy soldier boy." Harry's smart-arse remark came out a little strained. She was trying not to start crying again. "You always want to help everybody… Look, I just wanted to let you know. You don't have to do anything, really. Just… stay safe, ok, Johnny? I can't- Just stay safe, ok?"

"…I will. You take care of yourself. Give everyone my love... when you see them?" He cradled the phone against his shoulder, resting his face in his hands.

"Sure. Yeah. I will." She paused a second. "You take care of yourself too."

"Will do." He could feel the tightness building in his throat. He needed to get out of the mess before he made a scene. "Thanks for… um.. letting me know. I should be- I should be getting back."

"Right… of course. Uh… goodbye. Yeah..." The phone disconnected with a click. He put it back in its cradle and walked straight back out of the mess and into his tent.

The next day he'd been shot.


	10. Chapter 10

John lay, stunned and bleeding in the sand, his head spinning. Shot… he'd been shot. He raised a shaking hand to touch the spot and recoiled from the sudden increase in the pain. His hand was slathered in blood.

The soldier he'd been trying to reach was dead, he realized. The same sniper who'd hit him had finished the unfortunate corporal off too. His head fell back and he struggled to stop his vision from spinning. Nobody had ever sufficiently explained to him how much bullet wounds HURT. He struggled to sit up, but found he couldn't do it. Someone grabbed him under the arms, dragging him backwards toward cover. He blacked out.

* * *

John came to in a cot towards the back of the surgery. His entire left side ached and his arm was tightly wrapped in bandages. A knot of pure agony erupted in his shoulder when he turned his head to look around. Right. Don't move. Got it.

A nurse, one he'd worked with before, jogged over. She talked to him briefly then dosed him with a strong pain-killer. The world swirled out of focus again, and he slept.

* * *

"Doctor Watson?"

John's arm was still firmly bound to his chest, but he'd been recovering well. He'd spent nearly 6 weeks in an army hospital in Turkey, undergoing a few minor surgeries to remove bullet and bone fragments from where the shot had grazed his collarbone. Fortunately, nothing irreparable. They estimated he'd regain full, comfortable movement in the arm as soon as the tissue healed.

"Yes. Here." He reached out and took the phone that the young doctor held out to him, giving them a brief smile in thanks. "Hello?"

"Johnny! HI! How aaaaaaaaaare you?." Harry. God was she drinking again?

"Harry, what's going on. Are you drunk?"

"Naaaaaah…. Not drunk. Just a little pissed, that's all!" She'd laughed as if this were hilarious. John felt his left hand begin to twitch and tremor. He ignored it as best he could, though it made his shoulder injury ache.

"Harry, what's going on? I mean it, why are you doing this? You were doing really well-"

"Clara…. Clara's a bitch." Oh god. Here they went again.

"Harry, she's your wife. Don't talk about her like that." A headache was starting to form behind his eyes.

"She is NOT." Harry slurred angrily. "She poured out my scotch. ALL OF IT JOHN!"

"Harry-"

"It's over. Stupid cu-"

"HARRY."

"Well she is! It's over Johnny. OVER. I left her this mornin'."

"You… you left Clara because she tried to stop you drinking…? Harry, oh my god, are you serious? Don't do this to yourself."

"I'll DO WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT! AT LEAST I'M HONEST ABOUT WHO" She paused as if she'd lost her balance from shouting "WHO THE HELL I AM!"

"Harry, please-"

"At least I told Dad."

"… what?"

"At least I told him. You're a poof, but you don't tell anybody!"

"Harry, what are you-"

"YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW?!"

John hung up. He wasn't sure what Harry did or didn't know, but he couldn't deal with her. Not right now. His side ached and the now persistent shaking in his hand only made it worse. He buzzed for a nurse. He was going to need something stronger than aspirin for this…


	11. Chapter 11

John limped miserably through London, leaning heavily on his cane with every step. _Psycho-somatic? What a load of rubbish._ His leg hurt. A lot. That couldn't be all in his head. He was a doctor; he'd been to medical school. He knew the difference between make-believe pain and the real thing. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear it when an old class-mate flagged him down.

"John! John Watson! I heard you were overseas getting shot at! What happened?" Somehow the man's jovial tone annoyed him deeply.

"I got shot."

Well good, now they both felt awkward.

They'd chatted for a while in the park, sipping at coffee as John tried to subtly conceal his shaking hand. It was always worse when he was anxious. He really just wanted to go home and sulk. Maybe indulge in his own self-pity for a while. Instead, quite by accident, he piqued his friend's interest with an offhand comment.

"Come on. Who'd want _me_ as a flat-mate?"

The plump man beside him chuckled. "You know, you're the second person today to say that to me."

John glanced at him.

"Who was the first?"


	12. Chapter 12

John stumped into a small dark lab following Mike Stamford, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Everything looked shiny, new and state of the art. It was a little intimidating after making due with half-broken, sand-infested machines for months at a time.

A tall thin man with a mop of dark hair stood across the room, working. He regarded them coolly for a moment, then returned to his work without a word. John ignored him for the time being.

"Bit different from my day…" he remarked, for something to say.

His friend chuckled softly. "You have no idea."

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" a bored-sounding baritone voice spoke up suddenly. John glanced over at the unknown man.

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

Mike let out a hint of an exasperated sigh. "Sorry. It's in my coat."

"Oh… here. Use mine." John volunteered. It's not like anyone ever called the bloody thing.

"Oh…" The man appeared to notice him for the first time. "Thank you." He took the phone from John's hand and calmly clicked out the fold-out keyboard.

Mike introduced John to him briefly as the slender man tapped out a text message on the borrowed phone. John returned to examining the lab set-up.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man's eyes never left the screen of the phone.

"Sorry… what?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated, finally looking up with a hint of a self-satisfied smirk.

John glanced over at Mike who just looked amused and answered him with a shrug.

"… Afghanistan." John felt he'd missed the punchline to a joke somewhere along the way. "Sorry, how did you-"

A nervous young woman interrupted before John could finish, fluttering in with coffee in hand, and the tall man either hadn't heard the question or pretended he hadn't. He clicked the phone closed again and pushed it back into John's hands, ignoring him completely. The young woman - Molly, apparently- handed over the cup of coffee, fawning obviously over the man who seemed utterly unaware. She flitted uncomfortably back out of the room when he began to ignore her.

John stole another glance at Mike who looked to be thoroughly enjoying this. The tall man had returned to his work and seemed to have forgotten either of the others were there.

"How do you feel about the violin?" He said suddenly, standing with his back to them, putting something away.

Mike was enjoying this much more than was fair. John resisted the urge to try glaring him to death.

"I'm sorry, what?" John couldn't quite get a bead on where the conversation was going.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" The man asked casually, clattering away on a laptop keyboard and typing with ridiculous speed. "Flat-mates should know the worst about each other." The man flashed an annoyingly patronizing grin and returned to what he was doing.

John blinked at Mike. "You told him about me?" _When had he had time to do that…?_

"Not a word."

John was just about certain there was a joke he'd missed out on.

"Then who said anything about 'flat-mates'?" John's voice took on an admittedly frustrated edge as he glanced back at the odd man across from him.

"I did." The tall man shrugged calmly into a jacket, gathering his things. "I told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flat-mate for. And now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." He smirked again, tying a thin blue scarf around his neck with a flourish. He looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

John sighed, fighting down his frustration. "How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?"

The man ignored him completely. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7 o'clock." It wasn't a question. He brushed past John, on his way out. "Sorry, really got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."_…Riding… crop? _

"Is that it?" John realized after he spoke that he'd been using his 'officer scolding a private' voice.

"Is that, what?" Ah, he'd apparently irritated the arrogant bugger a little. Good. Everybody was pissed off now. Except maybe Mike, but sod him at this point.

He briefly considered trying to be polite, but he'd had a bad day, his leg hurt, and he had caffeine jitters from a coffee on an empty stomach. On top of that, he was due for pain medication 20 minutes ago, and this arrogant pretty-boy twat was messing him about. Not today.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat?" John gave him his best 'you can't be serious' face.

The taller man glanced around, as if he didn't understand why this would be odd. "Problem?"

John snorted and glanced at Mike for support. Mike just grinned. _Maybe the glaring to death thing was still an option…_

John unconsciously straightened his back, adopting a stiff military stance as he returned his attention to the tall man. The disapproving-officer voice was back. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting… I don't even know your _name_." '_So stop mucking about. You're not impressing anyone half so much as yourself.'_ He refrained from adding.

The man narrowed his eyes just slightly, apparently taking this as a challenge. He drew in a deep breath, but instead of shouting or swearing at him as John had expected, he just coolly laid out a whole host of details he had no business knowing about Doctor John Watson. He knew about Harry, Clara, John's injury and discharge. He referred to Harry as John's brother for some reason, but the rest was disturbingly spot-on. John stared in spite of himself, discomfited. _How the hell-?_

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" The man gave him a haughty look and turned to go. John couldn't think of a single thing to say in answer.

The man paused at the door, leaning back around it into the room.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." Then he'd favored them with a lurid wink and vanished into the hall.

John glanced at Mike.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

"… what the bloody hell…?"


	13. Chapter 13

He hadn't even moved his things into the flat yet, and already John's life had been completely flipped on its head. He'd been taken to a murder investigation crime-scene, abducted by a man who was apparently Sherlock Holmes' **_brother_**, of all things, and he'd chased all over London after a cab that may or may-not have contained a serial killer.

They'd been sitting in a small café on a sort of stake-out when the chase started. Everyone in the place seemed to know Sherlock. Food was offered on the house and the owner personally came over to say hello. He felt like he was dining with a celebrity.

Unfortunately, they also referred to John as Sherlock's 'date', sending the old familiar spike of fear through him. He wasn't particularly interested in ever being Sherlock's date for anything, and he really didn't want to be called out as a 'poof' again, as Harry had so charmingly called it. Bloody hypocrite, his sister… How did people keep guessing things about him he didn't want them to know?

"I'm not his date." He protested, repeatedly and uncomfortably. He found Sherlock interesting sure, but he also found him arrogant, strange, and childish. He didn't really think they'd be compatible, even if he were interested. Still… couldn't hurt to test the waters. Maybe he could trust Sherlock to keep his secret if John ever did decide to bring another bloke home one night…

-One short, awkward conversation later, John decided Sherlock was the very last person on earth he should trust to keep such a thing quiet. He also had been point-blanc informed that his interests would not be welcomed if they did develop. Yeah, that wasn't a bit awkward. Not at all…

After the cross-city chase, the two of them had been sagging against the hallway wall of 221 Baker Street, both of them laughing their heads off from pure adrenaline when it'd been pointed out to him that not only was he walking perfectly well without his cane, he didn't even have it on him. He'd just sprinted, jumped, and climbed over half of downtown London and his leg hadn't so much as twinged. Sherlock grinned and John noticed something he hadn't before. When he wasn't being an annoying twat, Sherlock was remarkably handsome… He pushed the thought aside. _Bad John. Don't even think about it._


	14. Chapter 14

Scotland Yard had been upstairs when they arrived and were apparently searching the flat on a 'drugs bust'. John had his own opinions about Sherlock's tendency to be annoying as all hell, but it seemed like the police were bullying the man to him. He'd tried to step in and defend his new flat-mate. Sherlock had of course ended up having to admit he'd had a past… one that might have left traces amongst his things. John couldn't believe Sherlock… of all people – Sherlock bloody Holmes- would be a former junkie, but it did explain his manic outbursts, he supposed.

There seemed to be a special feud between two of the detectives and Sherlock: Sally Donovan and a man everyone just kept referring to as 'Anderson'. Donovan kept referring to Sherlock as 'the freak' and both of them kept calling him a psychopath.

Apparently the correct term was 'sociopath', according to Sherlock, but John didn't doubt that the insults had to sting at some level; sociopath or not. Anderson reminded John of a weasel that hadn't showered recently. Donovan just reminded him of a self-righteous bitch. Especially when she referred to Sherlock as 'freak'. He kept these thoughts to himself.

* * *

Of course, for the umpteenth time in the past day and a half, Sherlock quickly pulled a ridiculously long leap of logic out of small bits of information regarding their current murder case, with a stunning display of intellect and a lack of social graces - and was proven correct. John watched, fascinated, over the man's shoulder as Sherlock logged into the GPS tracker for a murdered woman's mobile phone.

They both stared at the screen. Even Sherlock was confused. The mobile was apparently in 221B. The police began hunting around the floors, digging under furniture, searching for the phone. Sherlock froze, apparently lost in thought. He began acting more strangely than usual. Completely distracted. Then he'd gone out 'for some air', gotten into a cab he hadn't called and vanished into the night.

Scotland Yard had given up in disgust and gone home shortly after, with no Sherlock to bully anymore, and John sat alone in the flat, deeply confused. Had it really been just yesterday he'd been hobbling around London, dissolving in self-pity? It felt like a million years ago.

* * *

John was tired of waiting for Sherlock to get back. He'd been out for at least half an hour. _He's a grown man, little as he acts like it sometimes._ John reasoned. _He doesn't need me to check up on him._ He had just stood up to get ready for bed when the tracker beeped again. Curious, he swiveled the computer towards him, glancing at the address again. He froze. The tracker wasn't even on Baker Street anymore. It was halfway across London and still moving. _Then that meant-_ Without waiting for common sense to kick in, he snatched up the computer, his pistol, and his jacket and bolted out the door.

* * *

The cab dropped him off in front of a dark college building. Another empty cab sat waiting nearby, right between the entrances for two identical buildings. The signal definitely stopped here… but which one of the buildings had they gone into?

_Time to live dangerously, I suppose…_ He picked a direction at random – left- and took off at a run. He didn't know how long he had before Sherlock Holmes became the latest victim of a serial killer. As obnoxious as he was, Sherlock was his flat-mate and he seemed like a decent enough person. John wasn't about to let him get himself killed out of stupid arrogance.


	15. Chapter 15

John felt like he'd been running down the halls of the darkened building for hours, though he knew it had barely been 10 minutes. Still, that was likely more than enough time to kill a man and escape. Bolting into an empty classroom, he spotted them and swore. He'd picked the wrong building. They were in the room opposite, across the courtyard, in the other building. It'd take precious minutes that he probably didn't have to backtrack now.

Sherlock's back was to him, standing across from a non-descript, forgettable little man. A cabbie. Each had a large medicine capsule in his hand, slowly raising it to their lips and the doctor in John recognized at once what was about to happen.

"SHERLOCK!" He screamed it, but went unheard. He tried again. He had to stop that stupid brilliant idiot before he hurt himself, but the glass was too thick and they were too far away…. He was running out of time. Sherlock held the capsule up the light, examining it. He began to lower it towards his mouth with a fatalistic fascination.

John acted before he thought. The gun was in his hands, aimed and fired before he had a chance to panic. He watched mechanically as the bullet burst through the window right in front of him, crashed through a pane across the courtyard and sailed safely past Sherlock and into the chest of the man opposite him. A perfect shot. The cabbie went down instantly and John ran. Sherlock hadn't seen him, he knew. He'd been too engrossed in the stupid little power-game he'd been playing. John wanted to keep it that way. He knew he'd just saved the brilliant idiot's life… but that didn't mean he wouldn't be arrested for killing a man anyway.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock of course seemed to figure out what had happened almost immediately, once he put his mind to it. He was sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance, irritably picking at a shock blanket that had been draped over his shoulders, coming up with a profile of the shooter for Detective Inspector Lestrade. John noticed it was an uncomfortably close description of himself until Sherlock caught sight of him milling around beside a police car and his voice trailed off. He seemed to size John up with one 30 second look. Suddenly he was back-tracking his profile to Lestrade.

"Ignore all that. Ignore everything I just said. It's the… um… the shock talking." Sherlock said standing up abruptly. Lestrade stared at him, startled. Sherlock started towards John.

"Wait… where are you going?"

"I've just got to … umm.. discuss the rent." Sherlock was only barely acknowledging him now. His mind seemed to be whirring busily. _Grand_. John had the feeling he knew exactly what it was whirring over…

Lestrade stared at Sherlock's back. "But, I've still got questions."

"Oh what NOW?! Look, I'm in shock! I have a _blanket_!" Sherlock rounded on him as if this was somehow convincing evidence. Lestrade seemed confused, and started to protest, but then decided it wasn't worth the effort. He was apparently used to Sherlock acting like a nutter. He let it go.

"Ok…" The inspector eyed him appraisingly. "We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go." John didn't miss the slight touch of amusement on the Detective Inspector's face as Sherlock turned to leave. In what way had any of that been amusing?

A sudden revelation hit him. Lestrade didn't only put up with Sherlock because he had to. Lestrade actually _liked_ Sherlock Holmes... at least in some capacity. There was definitely frustration and annoyance, but John thought he also saw the faintest hint of fondness. And here he'd thought not being punched on sight was a good day for the detective.

He wondered momentarily if Sherlock even realized he was being let off the hook, but the next moment Sherlock was ducking under the police tape in front of him, a knowing look in his eye and John's mind turned to wondering how much trouble he was currently in, instead.

* * *

He started talking before Sherlock could put him on the spot, acting the part of the amazed by-stander as best he could. Sherlock clearly didn't buy a word of it.

"Good shot." _Shit. _Sherlock's voice was low and soft. He seemed to be intentionally keeping his voice down.

"Yes… yes, must've been." John looked back toward the crime-scene as a convenient excuse to break eye-contact. "Through that window."

"Well, you'd know."

They stared at each other for a few moments. John couldn't tell if it was a compliment or a threat…

"You'll need to get the powder burns out of your fingers." Sherlock continued, quietly, eyes flicking left and right as if he were making sure there were no eavesdroppers. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court-case."

John looked away briefly. He wasn't totally sure he understood what had just happened or how he felt about it.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock actually sounded… concerned? Was that possible?

"… Yes, yes of course I'm all right." Sherlock was watching him when he looked back.

"Well, you have just killed a man."

"Yes I- that's true, isn't it?" Somehow he doubted he'd lose sleep over this one. The concerned face was back."But he wasn't a very nice man." Sherlock's mouth twitched faintly, resisting a smile.

"No. No he wasn't really, was he." A layer of tension seemed to fall away from him.

"And frankly a blood awful cabbie." John added, warming to the conversation. Sherlock chuckled faintly, the handsome smile returning.

"That's true, he was a bad cabbie." The two of them started off past the line of police cars. "You should've seen the route he took us to get us here."

They both erupted into stifled laughter. John tried to suppress himself, but he was getting nowhere. He glared playfully at his flat-mate. "Listen we can't giggle here, it's a crime-scene! Stop it."

"You're the one who shot him." Sherlock shot back softly, grinning. Donovan passed them with a withering glare and they grinned back at her.

"Sorry, just nerves!" John called, "Keep your voice down!" he mock-scolded when she was out of earshot, turning back to Sherlock. The giggles died down.

"You were gonna take that damn pill, weren't you?" John piped up. A few paces ahead of him, Sherlock froze in mid-step.

"Of course I wasn't!" Sherlock swiveled his lanky frame around to face him in a failed attempt at casualness. He wasn't always a very convincing actor. "Just biding my time… I knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't." John snorted. "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life trying to prove you're clever."

Sherlock stood silently, as if appraising him for a moment. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." He doubted he'd get many chances to throw Sherlock's words back in his face. Better enjoy them where he could.

Sherlock smirked. He seemed to be considering something. "Dinner?"

"Starving."


	17. Chapter 17

John glanced up from his dim-sum and stared in spite of himself. Sherlock was actually eating. Did Sherlock eat? He supposed even Sherlock Holmes had to now and again, but he'd started to think the man subsisted entirely on adrenaline and nicotine.

"-What?" Sherlock had noticed the attention; a dumpling paused halfway to his mouth.

"Nothing."

"_Nothing_?"

"Nothing."

John quickly occupied himself with properly saucing up the next bite of food. He took his time. Couldn't be too careful about the proper amount of sauce, could you…?

He heard the un-eaten dumpling return to the plate opposite him with a soft, damp _whump _and found Sherlock regarding him over folded hands in smug silence when he looked up.

John tried to ignore it, but after several minutes of the awkward, staring silence, he was beginning to get distinctly uncomfortable. He gave in.

"Alright… what?"

"Oh. Nothing." He was favored with the same arrogant grin that he'd seen in the lab the day they'd first met before Sherlock returned to his food as if nothing had happened.

_Leave it._ John reminded himself. _You'll only encourage him._


	18. Chapter 18

John stood in stunned silence for half a moment. The bowl of water in his hands was completely forgotten. Sherlock Holmes sat awkwardly on the sofa uncomfortably close to a naked woman who leaned over him, his vicar's collar clenched in her teeth. _What in the-?_

"I've missed something… haven't I?

He glanced at Sherlock. A disgruntled expression was all he got. _Fabulous_. Things were going well already then…

Irene Addler apparently knew all about why they'd come and who they were. John disliked her immediately, though he wasn't completely sure just why. It certainly wasn't the way she oozed around in the nude, flirting shamelessly with Sherlock. And it certainly wasn't that Sherlock seemed to be intrigued by her... It _certainly_ was not that.

He settled on her smug, self-satisfied, "I'm so much smarter than you are" manner - choosing to ignore the irony in this. He also chose not to think too much about the way Sherlock was staring at her. He was deducing. That was all.

"-Oh… somebody loves you." Irene suddenly leaned into Sherlock from her nearby chair, her voice purring with sexuality. John stared in spite of himself. How was he supposed to focus on hating her if she insisted on showing off all of… that?

"Oh, if I had to punch _that_ face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." She cast a brief smirk in John's direction. How the hell could she possibly know about Sherlock's insane request that John punch him…? Or that John had been holding back when he did, pissed off as he was?

John _had_ been absolutely furious at the time, having just been sucker-punched by an impatient Sherlock. He was a trained and capable solider… He'd killed people, though he didn't like to think about it much. He was more than capable of seriously hurting someone if he chose, and yet the only wound on the infuriating detective's face was a small bruise and a scratch.

"Aheh, could you put something on please?" He stammered. "Anything at all." He cast around for something, "A napkin?"

Irene had seemed infinitely amused by his discomfort and his loathing for her only grew. Sherlock wasn't helping. Eyes averted, Sherlock stood up, holding out his heavy wool trench-coat with disinterest.

"If I wanted to look at naked women, I'd borrow John's laptop."

"You _do_ borrow it."

"I confiscate it." Sherlock brushed past Irene, now clothed in Sherlock's coat.

_Ugh. The pair of them._ John was infinitely grateful to escape the room when Sherlock sent him outside to bar the door and set off a smoke detector.

* * *

"Sorry Sherlock." John muttered as the gunmen shoved him to the floor. He was getting rather tired of having guns pointed at him, but it seemed to be an occupational hazard.

Sherlock set to work immediately, irritating the leader of the apparently American group of thugs. _Can't take you anywhere, can I?_ John kept his eyes on the floor.

"I want you to open the safe." The words came out with a noticeable American accent, through angrily gritted teeth. Why on earth did Sherlock insist on picking at people with guns in their hands…?

"I don't know the code." Sherlock answered calmly, clearly un-alarmed by the pistol pointed at his chest.

"She said she told you."

"If you were listening you'll know she didn't."

The American didn't seem inclined to take his word for it.

"Mr. Archer. At the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson."

"_What?!_" John couldn't help himself. A brief flashback of the last time he'd been shot filled John's mind. Somehow he doubted he'd live long enough to go through the experience again.

"I don't know the code." Sherlock's repeated, eyes wide. There was a sliver of fear in his voice.

"One."

"I don't know the code." Sherlock shouted desperately. John would've been touched if he hadn't had the barrel of a gun shoved against the back of his head.

"Two."

"She didn't tell me, I DON'T KNOW IT!"

Heart hammering, John closed his eyes and braced for the shot. _Damn it._

"Three-"

"NO- STOP!" Sherlock's baritone voice exploded. The room went silent. John supressed a shudder and released the breath he'd been holding. Sherlock slowly turned to face the safe key-pad. John sincerely hoped he knew what he was doing.


	19. Chapter 19

John sat in his chair in the living room of the flat, reading. Well, honestly, it was more staring at a page and fuming, but he felt inclined to keep up appearances.

He could forgive Sherlock for the gun-to-the-head incident. Sherlock got him into trouble. It was just part of living with him. And Sherlock had been genuinely afraid for him - something that drew that unwelcome little quiver up into his stomach. He pushed it away in annoyance and took a sip of his tea, long since gone cold from neglect.

Sherlock had stopped the gunmen in the end, and he was currently sleeping off the cost of his overconfidence in a drugged stupor in the bedroom nearby. It was Addler that John wanted to throttle. If she hadn't been mucking about, whipping royalty in her underpants to begin with, they'd never have gone to her house. He wouldn't have been humiliated, his hidden fascination with Sherlock dangled like a carrot in front of his face. If they'd never had to deal with Irene Addler, John wouldn't have had a gun shoved into the back of his head, and Sherlock wouldn't have been jabbed with a needle full of god-knows-what. The visual of Sherlock thrashing around on the floor, gasping, dazed, and convulsive volunteered itself. It had been no less terrifying for Irene's reassurances that he'd be fine soon. It'd be just like her to lie.

John put the book down with a sigh. Sherlock wasn't sleeping. He could hear him stumbling around again, but it hardly seemed worth the effort to go back in and put him back to bed for the 8th time in an hour. If he wanted to stagger around like a drunken idiot until he passed out again, Watson was going to bloody-well let him.

Sherlock's room fell silent again. John stared at the door. He swore to himself and stood up. He'd probably better make sure Sherlock had actually made it into the bed before he fell asleep. He'd be all manner of cranky in the morning if he slept halfway under the bed.

"Sometimes I don't know why I put up with you…"

Alright that was a lie. He knew perfectly well why. But he wasn't about to say so.


	20. Chapter 20

John followed 'Althea' through the maze-like construction site, irritably. What the hell did Mycroft Holmes have against just phoning him when he wanted to talk? It wasn't as if Sherlock wouldn't find out where he'd been sooner or later anyway…

* * *

"He's writing sad music." John announced to an apparently empty room as he entered, looking around for the elder Holmes brother. He appeared to be alone, but he knew better than to take that at face value. "Doesn't eat… Barely talks… and then only to correct the television." He swiveled his head around. Where the hell WAS Mycroft? "I'd say he was heart-broken, but… well he's Sherlock. He does all that anyw-"

He turned to the sound of footsteps and stopped cold as Irene Addler, very much alive and NOT lying on a slab in the mortuary, stepped into view from around the corner.

"Hello Doctor Watson." His blood ran cold and he pushed down the rage that began to build in him.

Who the hell did she think she was? First she got him nearly killed, texted Sherlock at all hours, apparently chatting him up, and then she'd sent Sherlock spiraling into a depression thinking she was dead.

Sherlock rarely showed it when he was in pain, but it wasn't hard to see he'd been upset lately. John chose to ignore the bitter stab of jealousy this thought brought with it.

"Tell him you're alive." His voice was dangerously quiet.

"He'll come after me." Irene demurred.

"I'll come after you if you don't."

She purred, apparently amused. "Mmm… I believe you." He hated her.

"You were dead, on a slab. It was definitely you." How had she come back from the dead? And more importantly… why?

"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep." She smirked at him and John had to resist the urge to close the gap between them and choke the life out of her, for good this time. "I needed to disappear."

"Oh? Then how come I can see you, and _I_ don't even want to?" _And how do I make you disappear again?_

She asked for his help in retrieving her damned camera-phone that she had for some inexplicable reason, sent to Sherlock. Stars of rage exploded behind his eyes, but he kept himself in check.

"It's for his own good." She added. _As if that were even possible._

"Yeah, well so's this." John snarled. "Tell him you're alive." He hated himself, but if this would bring Sherlock out of his worrying depression, he had little choice. He'd deal with his own wounded feelings later.

"I can't."

"Fine." His eyes blazed furiously. "I'll tell him. And I still won't help you." He turned to go.

Her voice reached him before he'd gone more than a step.

"What do I say?"

"What do you _normally_ say?!" His anger got the better of him and he turned back, roaring at her. "You've texted him a lot!"

Irene put on a hurt face. He wanted to gag. "Just the usual stuff." She answered dismissively.

"There is. no usual. in this case."

He stared her down for a few moments until she pulled an unfamiliar phone out of her pocket and began reading off texts. A surprising amount were asking Sherlock out to dinner. Watson vaguely wondered if 'dinner' had become some bizarre euphemism for sex…

"You… flirted… with Sherlock Holmes?" How could she possibly know this much about the man and not understand that he didn't _do_ flirtation. It wasn't in his repertoire…

"AT him." Irene corrected him, eyes on her phone. "He never replies."

"Sherlock replies to everything."

"Does that make me special?" She attempted a seductive pout. John hadn't realized he could hate her more than he already did.

"Maybe." He sighed, feeling defeated. "I don't know."

"You jealous?" She taunted.

John wasn't about to get into this. Not with her.

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are." She finished the text message she'd been typing and held up the phone to show him it was sent. "There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"

John glared at her, feeling tired. _The hell with this. The hell with both of them_.

"Look, who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but… for the record" He glanced around, half expecting an audience to have appeared, "if anyone out there still cares: I'm not actually gay."

Irene gave him a pitying look. "Well I am." _She- what? _"Look at us both."

John had only a few moments to try to absorb this new information before a telling sex-noise ring-tone went off to his left.

Sherlock…

He watched the all-too familiar coat hem vanish around a corner and started after him. Irene stopped him with a hand out. She fixed a faintly triumphant smirk on her obnoxiously pretty mouth.

"I don't think so, do you?" _Damn it all to hell._


	21. Chapter 21

The car dropped him off on the curb at 221 Baker Street. John dreaded facing Sherlock, but he couldn't think of anywhere else better to go, and falling facedown into bed was sounding more and more appealing by the second. He didn't think he could take anymore today. Unfortunately, fate wasn't feeling particularly kind.

_"Crime in Progress. Please disturb."_ the note on the door read in Sherlock's spidery handwriting. Of course... Why on earth had he expected a peaceful evening?

He'd found Sherlock upstairs in their flat, seething with unspoken fury, a gun pointed at the same American who'd ordered Watson shot at Irene Addler's house. Apparently, the bastard wasn't content with trying to shoot detectives or their partners - no, he'd moved on to attacking old ladies. John hadn't felt particularly bad about leaving the man alone to face whatever wrath Sherlock felt like unleashing upon him when he escorted Mrs. Hudson downstairs to have a look at her injuries.

The loud thump of a man crashing into trash-bins from the upstairs window confirmed Sherlock was still in a bad mood. John suppressed the urge to smile when he noticed Sherlock retrieving the man and dragging him back up the stairs for another go.

After the police had collected the man (three drops in total later) and left, Sherlock had joined him in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. He quickly dismissed John's attempt to assert his authority as a doctor and send Mrs. Hudson away for some rest.

"Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall!" He'd declared, putting an affectionate arm around their shaken land-lady. She'd accepted the gesture just as affectionately, leaning her head into Sherlock's hip. The scene made John smile in spite of himself.

_Stop being so damned adorable, you difficult bastard._


	22. Chapter 22

John stood beside Sherlock, sympathetic, but resolute. Sherlock would just have to put the damned hat on and humor everyone, or he'd never hear the end of it.

"Just get it over with." He murmured.

Sherlock glanced at him, clearly uncomfortable. He looked positively miserable, but obeyed begrudgingly. He pushed the paper into John's hands a little harder than he really needed to and jammed the hat onto his head, managing a half-sick looking false smile. John could tell he hated every second of it. Poor Sherlock. He so desperately needed an audience, but not like this.

The cab-ride home had been a nightmare too. People mobbed them at the door as they left Scotland Yard, screaming for photographs and signatures. Sherlock put his head down, tried not to look at anyone, and walked straight ahead. More people chased after the car as it pulled away - someone even tried to jam flowers through the window. Sherlock threw the hat onto the seat with disgust as soon as they were clear, folded into himself, and glared at the floor the entire ride. John let him be.

Trouble was brewing.

* * *

Sherlock had been fuming all morning. John watched him slam down the newspaper and stalk across the room, pacing angrily and heaping abuse on the stupid hat again. He flung it across the room to John in disgust, who caught it automatically. He was used to having things thrown at him by now.

"We need to be more careful." He interrupted Sherlock's rant, looking up from the 'article' (a charitable description of the writing) that he'd been skimming.

"What do you mean 'more careful'?" Sherlock still had a full head of steam built up to storm around the flat on, but this was too important for John to let him get distracted again.

"I _mean_ that this isn't a deer-stalker anymore." He held up the hat Sherlock had just tossed at him. "It's a Sherlock Holmes hat now. I _mean_ that you're not exactly a private detective anymore." He held up two fingers a millimeter apart. "You're this far from famous!"

"Ugh, It'll pass…" Sherlock grumbled, flopping miserably into a chair. He wanted an audience, not a mob.

"Yeah, well it'd better pass." John glanced down at the tabloid again then met Sherlock's eyes sternly. "Because the press _will_ turn, Sherlock. They always turn. And they'll turn on you."

Sherlock sulked.

"It really bothers you."

John looked up. "What?"

"What people say about me… I don't understand. Why would it upset _you?_"

John sighed. There was no point in trying to explain it to him.

"Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case, this week? … Stay out of the news?" He vanished behind the garbage tabloid to avoid Sherlock's puzzled gaze. It was getting harder and harder to remember they weren't a couple… no matter how much John liked to pretend otherwise.


	23. Chapter 23

Things had only gone from bad to worse when Moriarty had re-appeared in a grand fashion. After his crime-spree and farce of a trial, he'd begun methodically smearing Sherlock's name through what was apparently a vast and well-hidden network – subtly selling the idea that Sherlock was a fraud. A liar. That he'd hired actors to commit crimes in order to build himself up.

Scotland Yard had already been to the flat once, asking Sherlock to come in and be questioned. He'd refused, and John was worried. He didn't see a way out of this.

He'd been talking without really thinking, watching the police car drive away.

"-Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're-" He stopped, realizing there were two intense grey eyes boring into him.

"That I am what?" Sherlock's voice had a hard brittle edge. The stress was getting to him more than he was letting on, clearly. John sighed miserably and finished the thought.

"- A fraud."

Sherlock looked hurt and angry at the same time. He immediately assumed the worst. That John doubted him – when the exact opposite was true. John trusted him. Believed in him. He knew Sherlock was the genuine article. He was just unhappily aware that his word on the matter meant little or nothing to the police or the public.

Sherlock had by now finished shouting. The betrayed look in his eyes hurt John more than Sherlock would ever know.

"No… I know you're for real." He said softly, turning to look out the window again and dreading the sight of another cruiser approaching the flat to take Sherlock away.

"100%?"

John smiled faintly. "Well, no one could fake being such an annoying dick _all_ the time."

Sherlock looked taken-aback, but relieved. He almost smiled.

* * *

Scotland Yard was back. John ran down to meet them when he heard the voices of Lestrade and Donvan arguing with Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Arriving sirens filled the air. He demanded to see their warrant, but Lestrade brushed him aside.

"Leave it, John." He warned, pushing past him, up the stairs and into the flat. Sherlock was waiting for them. He was already in his usual coat and scarf. His face was blank.

John watched, cold horror turning his stomach, as they handcuffed his best friend. Sherlock didn't try to resist. John raised his voice to protest the absurdity of the handcuffs, but Sherlock spoke over him.

"It's alright, John." His voice was soft and resigned. There was something unsettling in his eyes.

"No, it's _not_ alright, this is ridiculous!"

He'd turned to the Detective Inspector angrily as Sherlock was marched down the stairs. "You know you don't have to-"

"Don't." Lestrade cut him off. "Don't interfere, or I shall arrest you too." John watched him go, furious, as Lestrade swept out of the room behind the other officers. How could he do this? Lestrade of all people? He knew Sherlock was genuine. He'd watched the man work with his own eyes. How could he possibly disbelieve it now?

Donovan strutted in shortly after her boss had left, looking thoroughly impressed with herself, and John resisted the urge to lunge on her. You s_elf-righteous, self-important-_

He'd been able to restrain himself well enough until the Chief Superintendant had strode pompously into the flat as well, casting a critical eye around and called Sherlock a 'weirdo', disgust evident in his voice. That was a step too far, and John simply couldn't hold himself back any longer.

It was one thing to be put off by Sherlock's own unique brand of sarcastic snark. It was one thing to actually know the man before passing judgment on him... But for this fat sod to just stroll in like he owned the place and start degrading Sherlock Holmes… Doing that in front of John Watson was a big mistake.


	24. Chapter 24

He was relieved, at least - after an officer had dragged him off the bastard and down the stairs- to see Sherlock acting more like his usual smart-arsed self as John was shoved up against the police-car next to him, his hands in cuffs.

"Joining me?"Sherlock's voice was warm and casual. He seemed to have lost the worrisome quietude of a few minutes ago.

John glanced over at him as best he could under the circumstances.

"Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Super Intendant." He gave Sherlock his very best 'who knew?' face. That earned him a half smile. _Ah, yes, definitely worth it_. John thought, pleased with himself. This time he hadn't spared the nose _or_ the teeth. _Fat bastard had it coming. _

A police officer undid their handcuffs, instead cuffing them together at the wrist, freeing one of John's hands to finger-print him.

Sherlock's head swiveled around to him. "Bit awkward, this."

John nodded, glancing around. "No one to bail us."

"I was thinking more of our imminent and daring escape." Sherlock murmured, already reaching through the open window of the police cruiser.

"Wait, what?" Before John could understand what the hell he was doing, an ear-piercing feed-back noise blasted out of the headset of the officer nearest them, sending the poor woman stumbling back, clawing at her ear. Suddenly there was no one restraining them. Sherlock pushed the pair of them away from the cruiser, snatching a pistol out of the stricken officer's holster in one fluid motion. The next thing John knew, everyone was staring at them, and Sherlock was pointing the gun at various people in the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, would you all please get on your knees." Sherlock ordered, his calm tone belied by a note of desperation. John really didn't fancy getting shot at again, but since when did Sherlock ever do things the easy way? No one had moved yet.

Sherlock twice shot into the air, icy eyes sweeping the crowd. _Stop it; you're only making this worse!_ John wanted to scream, but he found himself going along with the madness instead.

"Do as he says!" Lestrade barked, eying them uneasily. He looked rattled and surprised. Everyone obeyed.

"Just… just so you're aware" John tried to protest feebly as Sherlock began to back them away from the warily staring crowd. This was going to be hard to explain later… "The gun was his idea. I'm just… uh…"

Sherlock abruptly pointed the gun at him, and John was startled to find he wasn't afraid of it in the slightest. He was in more danger from the stunned officers than the man pointing a gun at his head. As strange thoughts go, that one was a stunner.

"My hostage."

"Hostage. Yes. That works. That works…" He glanced around, hoping Sherlock had a plan. It's not as if Scotland Yard was just going to let them stroll back into the flat and go home for tea. "So what now…?"

"I'm doing what Moriarty wants." Sherlock answered wearily, backing towards the empty street behind them. "I'm becoming a fugitive." They ran as soon as they were out of firing range.


	25. Chapter 25

Sherlock led the way down alleys and through backstreets at a run, threading his way through London with John desperately sprinting to keep up. Still dazed from everything that had just happened, John half-stumbled, but Sherlock pulled him along, coiling the handcuff chain around his own wrist until there was no give left in it.

"Take my hand." He ordered. He didn't have to ask twice. John would've done it, even if he hadn't asked at all.

"Now people will definitely talk…" John attempted, trying to cheer up the grim man running next to him. Sherlock didn't even glance over. So he was in a _very_ bad mood then…

The gun fell from Sherlock's hands, but they didn't stop for it. There wasn't time.

* * *

John wasn't sure how much longer they could keep this up. They couldn't just run forever, and he already knew Sherlock hadn't slept properly – even by the detectives own alarming standards- in days.

Despite what he might think of himself, Sherlock Holmes wasn't immortal; he'd need to rest sooner or later. But where exactly were they going to go? He yanked the man up short before Sherlock could accidentally break cover in front of a passing police van. They plastered themselves back against an alley wall and tried to catch their breath. Sherlock grumbled bitterly. He was looking more frayed at the edges than John had ever seen him.

Distractedly, John thought back to the first time he'd trustingly chased all over London with Sherlock Holmes. It had seemed like great fun then. The chase, the exhilaration, laughing like school boys until their sides ached even more, slumped up against their flat's hallway wall. He glanced at Sherlock. Here they were again, leaning up against a wall, exhausted from running all the hell over London. He didn't feel much like laughing now. Sherlock's already sharp and angular face looked weary and drawn. John resisted the urge to put a hand on his shoulder. It wouldn't help.

A movement drew his eye and he spotted a man surreptitiously watching them from behind a wall down the alley. They had company.


	26. Chapter 26

'Richard Brooks' fled out the window as Sherlock lunged after him. Kitty Riley, the self-important twit Moriarty had somehow convinced of his alias, fluttered around behind them, arrogantly declaring how much she 'knew' about Sherlock, how much repelled her. For the second time in a year, John resisted the urge to choke the life out of a woman who was toying with Sherlock. It was really becoming far too much of a habit…

On the street outside, they lost Moriarty's trail. 'Richard Brooks' had escaped.

Sherlock paced furiously, muttering, ranting, and growling to himself. John skimmed the 'article' Kitty had so proudly foisted on him. _Un-bloody-believable_. He wondered if it was too late to go back in there and sock her, but Sherlock distracted his attention. He stood frozen, the words he'd been saying dying off into sudden silence.

"Sherlock?"

"There's something I need to do." Sherlock was distracted. Worried. He barely seemed to notice that John was still standing there.

"… Can I help?"

"No." Sherlock brushed him off, suddenly starting off in the other direction. "By myself." John was about to protest when something occurred to him. He glanced back down at the tabloid draft. A conversation he'd had not so long ago touched his mind. _Does being brilliant and stupid all at once just run in the family or something…?_ He had someone to see.

* * *

John tensed angrily at the sound of Mycroft's approaching footsteps. He felt spitefully pleased to hear the steps come up short, apparently startled to see him.

John wasn't technically supposed to be in the Diogenes Club at the moment; but something about the fire in his eyes and the barely-contained-fury seeping into every determined step when he'd swept through the door had kept anyone from questioning him. He'd been shown into Mycroft's study and left there in silence.

"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley." John shuffled the papers pointedly. He hoped the venom in his voice was apparent. –Very - apparent. "These are things that only someone close to Sherlock could know…"

Mycroft sighed and closed the door. John kept talking.

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? There's two names in it: yours, and mine." His eyes accusingly followed Mycroft as he passed his chair, daring the man to argue with him. "And Moriarty certainly didn't get all this from me."

* * *

"Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed." John's voice had a low, dangerous edge. He was forcing himself not to shout. "And _you_" He glared pointedly "have given him the _perfect_ ammunition." He stood up, shoving the chair behind him back half an inch in the process. He needed to get away from Mycroft before he did something stupid and violent.

"John." Watson paused, still half turned to go. His anger threatened to boil over.

Mycroft had just admitted - to his face - that he'd sold Sherlock out. He'd admitted to John Watson, his brother's closest –and only- friend, that he'd told Moriarty everything he needed to know to set this nightmare in motion. All for a few ultimately worthless snippets of information. And he had the gall to do it while calmly twisting his umbrella around in his hands. Might as well have been discussing the weather for all the remorse he showed.

Mycroft met his eyes in silence for a few moments, apparently trying to decide what to say. The elder Holmes sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"Jeezus…" John couldn't do this. He had to get out of there before he did something that'd get him arrested. He wasn't sure what would happen if he brained Mycroft, but he imagined it was probably a little more severe than wholloping a Chief Superintendant, and Sherlock needed him right now. They were done here.

"Tell him would you?"

John ignored him, stalking out of the room without bothering to shut the door. He doubted he could do it without slamming it straight off its hinges anyway. _Sod this, and sod you. _


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock had been acting stranger than ever all night. John noticed he was quiet and sullen, almost evasive. He chalked it up to stress. When Sherlock continued to avoid him, he took the time to organize some of Sherlock's various scattered papers around the lab. Half of them made no sense to him, but he tidied up the piles anyway. It was something to do.

John was tired, but Sherlock showed no signs of sleeping. Whenever John tried to ask some of the thousands of questions that swirled around his head or get Sherlock interested in discussing the situation, a case… anything really… he was met with stony silence. A rubber ball bounced endlessly against tables, cabinets and floors - he assumed in an effort for Sherlock to stave off boredom and conversation at the same time. Molly, mysteriously, was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if she had a day off, or if she was simply as afraid of Sherlock as everyone else seemed to be lately.

John dozed off without realizing it, sometime around 2 am, face-down on a pile of papers he'd been in the process of sorting. He was awakened several hours later by his phone going off next to his head. Sherlock didn't appear to have moved all night. He glanced disinterestedly up as John took the call, but made no other sign that he'd even noticed.

"_What?!_" John bolted out of his chair, pacing towards the door, then turning distractedly back. Mrs. Hudson… shot? His stomach lurched. How had they forgotten to safe-guard her in all of this…?

'Fatal', the voice on the other end of the phone informed him, apparently a paramedic. Mrs. Hudson was dying.

"Oh my god… Yes, I'm coming." His mind reeled tiredly. Could things possibly, _possibly_ get worse?

"What is it?" Sherlock's voice sounded strange, but John barely registered it. A tiny rebellious voice in the back of his mind screamed that this was all Sherlock's fault anyway.

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson's been shot." The words failed to have the effect he'd expected. Sherlock barely blinked.

"What, how?" The oddness in Sherlock's voice continued. He almost sounded like he was reciting lines in a play. Poorly.

"I don't know, could be one of the _killers_ you've managed to attract. Jeezus… Jeezus." It was just too much to handle."She's _dying_ Sherlock, let's go." He started to turn around. Sherlock didn't flinch.

"You go, I'm busy." Sherlock's voice came out flat and uninterested.

John stiffened as he felt all the fury he'd been containing, all the anger, frustration and weariness bubbling up. He just couldn't deal with Sherlock's usual nonsense right now. Not now.

"_BUSY?_" What the hell was wrong with this man? A woman who'd been like a mother to them both was _dying_ as they spoke, and Sherlock just sat there like a taller version of a petulant three-year-old.

"I need to think." Sherlock barely glanced in his direction. If John's mind had been a little clearer, a little sharper, he might've noticed how tense and uncomfortable the detective looked. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

"You need to-" John couldn't process this. "Doesn't she mean _anything_ to you? You once half killed a man for laying a _finger_ on her!"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "She's my land lady."

"She's DYING. You _machine_!" He didn't care if the words hurt at this point. Well they should. He couldn't reconcile the warm affectionate Sherlock, hugging a shaken Mrs. Hudson with the cold, uninterested man who couldn't be bothered to get out of his chair to visit the dying woman's bedside. He was overloaded and he had no more patience left for Sherlock's bizarre games.

"Sod this." He sighed, giving up. He'd just have to make some kind of excuse to spare Mrs. Hudson in her last moments. Tell her Sherlock was in hiding. That he'd been hit by a bus. Anything but 'couldn't be bothered to come'. "Sod this. You stay here if you want to. On your own."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." Sherlock was staring fixedly straight ahead, not looking at him. John almost hated him in that moment.

"No." He paused at the door, shaking with anger and disbelief. "Friends protect people." And then he was out the door, chest heaving with the things he still wanted to scream at Sherlock. _Later._

He flagged down a cab just outside and paid them double to get him the Baker Street in half the time. He resisted the urge to cry with frustration as he sat back, nursing his confusion, hurt, anger, and sadness. Now was not the time.


	28. Chapter 28

John froze in the doorway, stunned. Mrs. Hudson stood with her back to him, casually watching a repair-man working on the stair-well. She was very much alive and unhurt. She jumped when she realized he was there, apparently completely unaware that anyone had called him. That she'd been 'dying'.

"Oh… my… god…" Realization hit him. _Sherlock. Oh no…_

Without waiting to answer her questions, John turned and sprinted back towards the street, pushing a man aside and diving into the first cab that appeared. He had to get back. He had to get back now.


	29. Chapter 29

John's phone went off as the cab pulled up at St. Bart's. Sherlock's number came up on the caller ID. He answered as he left the cab; sprinting, phone to his ear, towards the hospital doors.

"Hello?"

"John." There was that flat tone again. It sounded tired. He quickened his pace.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" _Please don't be hurt, please don't be hurt, please don't be hurt_

"Turn around and walk back the way you came." Sherlock's voice trembled and cracked. John slowed but kept moving. This was bad.

"What? No… I'm coming in."

"Just… do as I ask!" A frantic, desperate edge laced his voice. "Please…"

John did it, though he didn't understand why. Sherlock never said please. Not unless he either wanted to humiliate someone by proving them wrong… or- well he doubted Sherlock was teasing him now.

"Sherlock…" He looked around. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but he could clearly see John.

"Ok, look up. I'm on the rooftop." John's eyes scanned up, spotting a tall thin figure standing precariously on the roof ledge of the hospital. Sherlock sounded tired and afraid. John's heart sank.

"Oh god…" He stared, confused. _Sherlock wouldn't-_

"I- I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock was still talking, his voice shaking audibly. John struggled to remember how to breathe.

"What's going on?"

"An apology." He paused for a long time. John didn't dare say anything for fear Sherlock would do something crazy. He'd never seen him act quite like this before. "It's all true."

* * *

John's heart hammered hard in his chest, eyes still on the rooftop. Sherlock had only grown more and more worrying the longer they stood here. He claimed to have faked everything. All the deductions, everything he'd known about John. He seemed to have been trying –and failing- to avoid crying. John could hear the tell-tale hitch in his voice. The concealed sniffle here and there.

John knew it was garbage. Sherlock had a lot of faults, but he was no fake. There was no way he could've known even half the things he'd known about John just from looking him up. No way for him even to have known John was coming until he was already there.

John couldn't stand it any longer. He started towards the doors again.

"NO, stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock's voice pulled him up short. He retreated again. The other man's voice had started to shake violently again. He seemed to be just barely keeping himself together and talking. "Don't move. Keep your eyes fixed on me." He saw Sherlock's hand reach out and extended his own without thinking. Every particle of his being wanted to be on that rooftop, leading Sherlock back down to safety. He had the sick feeling he knew exactly what Sherlock was building up to, and he couldn't think of any way to stop him.

John stared up at the roof, not knowing what to do.

"Please… will you do this for me?"

"… Do what?" John dreaded the answer.

"This phone call… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

_No. No, please don't-_

"Leave a note…when?"

"Goodbye John."

"No… Don't…" He had to keep him talking. Had to find a way to pull him back from the ledge. He needed more time.

He didn't have it.

Sherlock tossed the phone behind him onto the roof, took one last look down, and then jumped.

John barely even remembered screaming, although he heard later that he'd done a lot of it at the time. All he remembered was the blood and the lifeless grey eyes, staring up, unseeing into the sky. He remembered them every time he closed his eyes.


	30. Chapter 30

John's phone chirped in his pocket as he started up the stairs to his bedroom. It had been almost a year since Sherlock's death, and he still jumped every time the phone rang, hoping for the impossible. He snatched it out and looked at it. _Ugh… Mycroft._ He hadn't spoken to the elder Holmes brother in over 10 months and he wasn't about to start now.

They'd spoken briefly at Sherlock's funeral, though John had done his best to avoid him. Mycroft had told him he'd continue to pay the rent on the flat if John would agree not to move out. He thought it's what Sherlock would've wanted.

John thought Sherlock would've actually had something much more amusing and snarky to say, and he certainly didn't think Mycroft of all people was in any position to be telling people what Sherlock would want… But he was too upset to bother arguing the point. He'd agreed just to get rid of Mycroft. Besides, it wasn't as if he could afford to move, and he preferred to stay close to Mrs. Hudson. She was struggling with Sherlock's death as much as he was…

His phone pinged again with a voice-mail. He deleted it. _Sod off, Mycroft._

* * *

The cemetery trees were beautiful this time of year, John noted distantly, sitting with his back against the side of Sherlock's headstone. He sighed and closed his eyes, tipping his head back into the cold black marble.

"I miss you." A soft breeze carried the words away. Another sigh.

His phone chirped in his pocket. He blinked, annoyed. Who would be calling him today? Everyone he normally talked to knew where he was. They knew not to disturb him. He pulled it out and glanced at the display. _Mycroft again._ He ignored it and closed his eyes again.

"Mrs. Hudson sends her love." He continued, trying to envision Sherlock's face as he imagined it would be, listening to him with bored disinterest. That was his default expression after all. "She had me down for tea yesterday. Asked me to bring you something, actually." He picked up the small bouquet of flowers that sat next to him and laid it gently on the grave. "She misses you too…"

He let his hand linger on the manicured grass that covered the grave, trying to pretend his best friend wasn't buried 6 feet beneath it. His phone rang again. _Sod –off- Mycroft!_

He pulled the phone out of his pocket, planning to turn it off in order to get some peace, but a text message popped up onto the screen before he got the chance.

**_"For the love of god, just talk to him, he's driving me up the wall –MH"_**

John stared. _There is no way_- The phone rang again. This time he answered it.

"-Hello?"

"Hello John." The world faded around him until only himself and the phone were left. "I've missed you too."

"…-Sherlock?"

"We've got a lot to talk about, but I'll be back on Baker Street this afternoon. Dinner?"

John's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"John?" Sherlock's voice came back over the phone after a few moments of silence.

"Yes… Yes. Starved." He managed.


	31. Chapter 31

_****I HAD been planning to leave things with chapter 30, but since everyone seems to be waiting for more, I guess we'll continue a little longer?****_

It had been several months since Sherlock's 'death'. He sat moodily on the sofa at Holmes House, one bandaged leg propped up on the table in front of him as he watched the video feed from the flat. Sometimes having a brother with a spy network came in handy.

John hadn't done much since Sherlock's fall. He just went to work, came home, and went to bed. That was all. He only ever went out if he was pressed, or to visit the cemetery and talk to Sherlock's headstone about his life and his thoughts. On such occasions, Mycroft pretended not to notice when Sherlock would get up abruptly and stalk into his bedroom without a word. He knew why and he had no more desire to watch his brother cry than Sherlock had to be watched. He felt deeply uncomfortable around his brother's sorrow, and didn't really know any other way to react to it than to simply pretend it didn't exist.

* * *

Sherlock had been busy during his absence from the world of the living, and he had only one more loose thread to tie up. Almost all of the elaborate network Moriarty had created was dismantled. There was only one threat left to deal with and then he'd be able to come back from the dead. He'd already been away longer than he'd hoped… Going on 8 months. Still, he could go home soon, and that was what mattered.

He laid in bed, sleepless as usual, mentally cataloging the many new scars he'd acquired since his dramatic fall. _One long pavement burn on left fore-arm from the fall itself. _His heavy wool coat had protected him for the most part, but he HAD skidded a little._ Two small puncture wounds on right calf where idiot attacker tried to use a staple gun. _That hadn't gone well for them. _Stab wound over right hip_. He'd had to stitch that one up himself in order to limp back to the rendezvous point, and though one of Mycroft's private physicians had cleaned it up later, the scar had formed an ugly puckered path over the curve of his hip. He'd been laid up for several weeks before he was able to go back on the hunt. _4 lash marks across upper left shoulder-blade._ Bloody bull-whips. That one had hurt him for 2 full months, even after the welts had healed over. _5 inch long gash on lower right cheek._ The cut hadn't been extraordinarily deep, and it healed well, but a thin pale-pink scar remained. _Bullet graze, left calf. _ He was fortunate he'd only been grazed. A few inches further over and the bone would've been shattered. That one was still healing.

Sherlock sighed and rolled over, gingerly avoiding his more tender injuries. He hoped he wasn't going to have to add any more to the count by the time this was all over, but there _was_ a reason he was doing this more or less alone... John didn't need any more holes in shot in him, thank you very much.


	32. Chapter 32

"I've been watching your little boyfriend." The short hairy man crouched behind a filing cabinet jeered at him. "Just thinking about putting a shot right between those baby-blues."

Sherlock glared across the darkened office. He resisted the urge to just break cover and make his move. That was exactly the sort of stupid thing Higgins was counting on him to do. "But I ain't paid to kill him unless you pop up. And why looky-look, here you are. But I'm not gonna shoot him now. Y'know what'd be way more fun?"

"If you shut up and got on with dying quickly and _quietly_? I really have better things to do this evening than listen to you blather on." Sherlock called back, irritated. He didn't like the things his vivid imagination was conjuring up. Images of John lying on the ground… images of blood…

No. That was why he was here. He wasn't going to let that happen.

"I thought maybe I'd skin him first. Wouldn't be that hard to just walk right into the flat. It's not like anyone'd care about one more house-breaking, would they? I thought I'd start with -"

"-You are familiar with the term 'bullshit' are you not? I'm reliably told it's very popular for describing nonsense that you believe is clever." Sherlock forced himself to focus on the more pressing issue at the moment. He'd scrub that image out of his head later.

A plan had started to form in his mind. If he could just keep this simpleton talking… And what better way to keep him talking than to tell him to stop?

"Don't worry, Boffin," Sherlock bristled. God he still hated that stupid nickname."I ain't even got to the good part yet."

"'Haven't'" He corrected calmly, shifting his position slightly and sighting his shot across the room.

Charlie Higgins, the last assassin to be taken care of, had gotten sloppy. He'd left a small, almost unnoticeable opening between the wall and the cabinet he hid behind where a carefully placed shot could pass. Sherlock wasn't a crack-shot like John, but he _had_ been practicing…

"Oh, my apologies, I didn't realize we were havin' a test." Sherlock rolled his eyes and spoke loudly to cover the sound of him cocking the pistol in his hands.

"Is your plan to kill me with your terrible grammar, Higgins? You're certainly not going to do it any other way."

_Yes… that's right. Lean back you smug little bastard. Put your head right about… _

"Oh you think-"_ there._

A shot sounded and the voice cut off with an abrupt wet sound and the thump of a body hitting the floor. Sherlock waited a moment but there was only silence and his own unsteady breathing.

"Agh…" Sherlock staggered away from the wall, hand against his injured side. Higgins was an idiot, but the shot he'd managed to get off before their stand-off had been a good one. Fortunately, not good enough. This one had been more than a graze, but he was fairly sure he'd live. He dragged himself over to Higgins and made certain he'd hit his mark. He emptied the pistol into the body, just to be sure.

"Do say hello to Jim in hell for me, won't you?"

He pulled out the small flip-phone Mycroft had given him and called for a pickup.

"… Sherlock, did you get yourself shot again?"

"Not badly."

"Mmm…. So I should send Dr. Stephens out to collect you this time?"

"If you must."

"I'll have someone 'round to clean up your mess in half an hour. The car is waiting for you outside. I dare say you're getting predictable, little brother."

"Do shut up, Mycroft."

"You're welcome." The call ended with a click.


	33. Chapter 33

Sherlock had been moody and irritating all afternoon. He'd been confined to bed-rest for over a week after the incident with Higgins and his usual restlessness combined with an eagerness to return home, now that it was safe, were making him a holy terror. Mycroft was at his wit's end trying to keep him from hopping a train to London when he was refused a private car.

"Sherlock Holmes, _for god's sake_, behave like a grown man for _once_ in your life!" Sherlock glared at him from the bed where he lay sulking, propped up against pillows. A faintly red tinted bandage was wrapped neatly around his middle. "You've been 'dead' for months and the man _still _has lunch with your headstone every Saturday afternoon. "

"Your point?"

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sank into a chair beside the bed. Neither of them was particularly good at this sort of thing, but he gave it his best effort. "… I know you miss him. All of them, really. But what good do you think it will do him if you rise from the dead only to pass out on his front step?"

"You think it's better to let him suffer while I have a nice nap?"

"You're not napping, simpleton, you're recovering. You can't just walk away unscathed every time"

"John's a doctor."

"Yes, and he thinks you're dead, if you recall."

_Dammit…_

"Fine. Two weeks. And then I'm going to London if I have to climb out a window."

"If it keeps you from behaving like a spoiled child, you have a deal."

"Good."

Mycroft closed the door behind him, trying to ignore Sherlock glowering at his back. He sighed and took out his phone.

**_Please see that all windows in SH's room are barred immediately. –MH_**

**_Barred, sir? –A_**

**_Securely. –MH_**


	34. Chapter 34

Sherlock was watching the video feed from the flat again. It was getting late and Mycroft hoped he would simply go to sleep and forget what day it was. A tiny John Watson was just getting up from his chair on the screen, probably to go to bed.

"It's two weeks today." Sherlock remarked without looking up.

Mycroft sighed, hand on the door. He'd been just about to slip out of the room. Of course Sherlock wouldn't have forgotten.

"Yes. It is. Are you sure you're up to-?"

"Yes." Sherlock interrupted him immediately. "Can I borrow your phone?" Mycroft handed it over.

The tiny figure on the screen stopped halfway up the stairs, pulling something out of its pocket and examined it. Then it put it away without answering.

"Hmm... Seems he's still just as fond of you as ever. He won't even answer your number."

"Do shut up and get on with your phone call."

"He won't listen even if I leave him a message."

"Likely not."

"I have an idea." He hung up, though the call had already gone to voicemail. He was certain John would just delete it anyways.

* * *

He waited until John had left the apartment and tracked the cab until it reached the cemetery. (Spy networks could be handy, if lazy. He began to understand why Mycroft used them so heavily.)

"Your plan is to _annoy_ him into answering the phone?" Mycroft Holmes stared at his brother incredulously. "_Honestly?_"

"Well since _someone_ didn't think to get my mobile back from Lestrade until he'd already handed it over to John, I haven't got much choice have I?" Sherlock thumbed through his brother's contacts down to 'Watson'. "If I use a number he's not familiar with, he'll assume I'm press and he won't answer that either. He never takes calls when he's visiting 'me'. If he thinks you're pestering him on a visiting day, he'll at least answer to shout at you."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. It had been a hard fought battle just to convince Sherlock to phone his friend and give him some warning rather than simply showing up. John was likely to react poorly to the shock and Sherlock's latest injuries simply weren't recovered enough to stand up to being punched yet.

He called several times, as apparently the signal in the cemetery was awful, and connected twice. Both times the call was ignored. He dialed twice more without getting through before Mycroft snatched the phone out of his hands and typed out a message.

_**"For the love of god, just talk to him, he's driving me up the wall –MH"**_

He took the liberty of hitting the re-dial button as he handed the phone back. Sherlock heard a small click as the call picked up.

"-Hello?" _God it was good to actually hear his voice again…_

"Hello John." Sherlock took a deep breath, savoring the knowledge that he was finally, finally going to see John again soon. "I've missed you too."

"-…Sherlock?" John sounded like he was going to faint.

"We've got a lot talk about, but I'll be back on Baker Street this afternoon." Sherlock eyed his brother pointedly. _Even if I have to steal my brother's damned bloody car to do it_. "Dinner?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone. He felt a shiver of fear. Would John even want to see him again?

"John?"

"Yes… Yes. Starved."


	35. Chapter 35

John was sitting on the front step of 221B when the sleek black car pulled up. He noticed many things at once as Sherlock Holmes emerged from it onto the curb. For one thing, there was a long pink scar on his face that certainly hadn't been there before. He seemed to limp slightly, putting less weight on his left leg, and most surprising of all, he leaned fairly heavily against a cane as he unfolded himself from the car.

Sherlock looked like he'd been through hell and back.

They stared at each other in silence, taking in the effects of the past year as the car pulled away again.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John spoke first. "What the bloody hell- how- what happened? You were dead. I saw you fall. And now- just… how?!"

Sherlock limped forward and settled heavily into a chair for the café next door. He hated to have this conversation sitting down, but his side was still tender and his leg ached. He was a little embarrassed at the uncomfortable groan that escaped him in the process.

He glanced up fondly at John, taking in the uncertainty on his face in an instant. His inner doctor seemed to be warring with the intense desire to throttle Sherlock.

"I apologize for… well for everything. Unfortunately, I've been informed that I'm not to let you hit me for another few weeks, until the stitches are out. Though you're welcome to shout at me instead if that helps."

"-stitches…?"

"Yes. Though I'm told this one won't leave much of a scar." He couldn't quite bring himself to be as snarky as usual. He was just too damned tired and happy.

"This one-…" John shook his head. This was going to be a long, long talk… "Ok…Here's what we're going to do. You're going to come inside and I'm going to make tea. We are going to have carry-out, and you are going to explain to me exactly what the bloody hell I've missed. Then I'm going to try really really hard not to punch you anyway."

"Alright." Sherlock heaved himself up, almost overbalancing. John was at his elbow before he realized it, steadying him. They stared at each other for a moment. John moved away, looking awkward.

"Right…"

"John?"

"What?" He sounded weary.

"… I'm sorry. I really am. If there'd been another way-"

"Upstairs. Now."


	36. Chapter 36

Mrs. Hudson was out of town for the day, so they had the place entirely to themselves.

John held the door open as Sherlock limped through behind him, remembering how the scene had been reversed the day he'd first come to Baker Street. He watched as Sherlock sank wearily into his familiar leather armchair, looking almost as if he'd never left.

John started the kettle boiling in silence.

"It was for you." Sherlock piped up, abruptly, his hand automatically resting on his still tender bullet-wound. He didn't look up.

"-What was, Sherlock?" John returned from the kitchen, sitting down across from him. He didn't know how to feel about all of this.

"The fall." Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat. His leg was hurting him again, likely from climbing the stairs. "My 'suicide'. I had a choice between my life and yours, Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. Seemed like a fairly easy choice, especially given I had a backup plan." He rolled back his sleeve and showed Watson the long rough patch where his skin had been rubbed off against the pavement. "Didn't go perfectly, but considering the risks, I think I came out quite well indeed."

Realization clicked abruptly. John's eyes flew wide.

"You… you staged it? All of that?" He was halfway out of his chair, furious. "God Sherlock, do you have any idea what it was like to watch that? To watch you-…" His eyes screwed shut for a few moments as he worked to regain his temper. "I watched you die." His voice shook. "Why would you make me watch that?"

"I-"

"I mourned you for months! I barely ate, or slept, or… or anything at all! Do you even realize what you put me through?!"

"John-"

"YOU COULD HAVE TOLD ME!" He came up short, realizing he'd been shaking Sherlock's shoulders, and noticing the detective had gone slightly grey. He let go and backed up. Sherlock looked nauseous.

"John, I understand completely, really" His stomach was lurching and the wound on his torso had begun to bleed just slightly again, "…just if you'd…" his head swam, he waited a moment for it to clear "-if you'd like me conscious to answer questions, please don't do that."

"Jeezus, Sherlock…" John still hovered over him, his face a mess of conflicting emotions muddling together. "What the hell did you do to yourself? "

Sherlock waved him away. "Not important." John noted his face still looked drawn, and his eyes were slightly unfocused

"Like bloody hell it's not. You died on me once; you're certainly not doing it again right when I've finally got a chance to bawl you out." He pushed Sherlock's hand away from the obviously painful spot. "Let me see." Apparently the doctor in him had won out. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt to the waist, over feeble protests, noticing several fading bruises on the detective's chest and a couple of mostly-healed-over cuts and scratches. Faint red blotches adorned an otherwise pristine bandage wrapped just beneath his ribs. He gingerly pulled back the gauze to peer behind it and caught his breath.

"You got yourself shot?!"

"A few weeks ago, yes. I'd have been her sooner otherwise."

"You should be on bed-rest for at least another week at the _absolute earliest_! What the _hell_ are you doing up walking around?!"

"Ugh, you sound like Mycroft." Sherlock leaned his head against the back of the chair. He wished the room would stop lurching, it was distracting. "I told you, I would've been here ages ago if he hadn't kept me locked up. I was about to climb out a window."

"Sherlock… I'm going to ignore what you just said because you're my friend. And I'm going to overlook how bloody stupid it was of you to be wandering around with a bullet-hole in you, against doctor's orders. I'm going to do that because you are going to get your skinny ass in bed right this minute and recuperate properly so I can punch you when you're all better."

"Am I?" Sherlock's head came up to regard him with a faint smile. He found he liked it when John's inner solider came out. Under normal circumstances, he'd have had great fun antagonizing that inner solider, but for now, he just didn't have the energy.

"You are even if I have to carry you there myself." John stared him down, arms crossed firmly over his chest.

"You know, this is what I love about you." Sherlock was only semi-aware of the words coming out of his mouth. He was exhausted and half-sick, and his entire body hurt. He completely missed the startled look that came across the doctor's face. "I'd be lost without my blogger." And with that he promptly passed out completely.


	37. Chapter 37

John threw out the soiled bandages and stood up beside Sherlock's bed, examining his handiwork. Sherlock wasn't as bad off as he'd seemed, passed out in the chair. He was weak and exhausted and he'd definitely exacerbated his injuries, but he wasn't feverish and there weren't any signs of infection. If he'd just stay still and get some rest, he ought to be fine with a little time.

John considered just tying him down to his bed briefly, but he knew it wouldn't work. Besides, Sherlock would just work himself into a lather trying to get up out of spite and end up hurting himself again. He rolled his eyes and pulled the covers gently up over the detective. As far as he could tell, Sherlock had successfully transitioned from unconscious to asleep, and he intended to keep it that way.

_Hurry up and get better so I can kill you, you bloody git._

* * *

Sherlock drifted back to himself by degrees, not quite awake, but not quite asleep. He stayed still; eyes closed, and processed what he could pick up from where he was.

_Smell of Chinese take-away. John's chair is creaking – he's just sat down. _The sound was coming from the other room, which meant he'd been moved from the living room at some point. _Lying down. Bedding familiar. My bed. Stale tea smell, likely from bedside table. Shirt missing. Also shoes. Bandages new. Time?_ His eyes flicked open. He had absolutely no idea what time it was. He heard John's familiar and annoying ringtone sounding from the next room.

"-I was wondering when you were going to bother checking in- Yes, he's here. No I haven't killed him…. Yes of course I _thought_ about it, you know how he is sometimes. … No, he is not going anywhere and you've got some explaining to do yourself. What the hell are you thinking letting him- NO I _don't_ care if he _was_ whining like a child, he does that all the time!" Sherlock smirked faintly. So big brother had decided to check in. Must be later than he thought.

"-No, no way Mycroft. He shouldn't have even come here, but there is no way I'm letting him get out of bed again now. He stays." A pause followed by a humorless laugh. "Yes, I'm sure putting up with your brother is ground for canonization, now shut up and get off my phone. I still haven't forgiven _you_ for your part in all this, if you recall. …Yes, I'm sure you had a bloody good reason, good for you. … I'm a doctor, he'll be fine. –Aaand we're done here. Goodbye." He heard the phone click off distantly. Ah… yes. One of many many reasons John was amazing. He'd have to tell him so once he was capable of moving properly again.

The chair creaked again and he heard the approach of the good doctor's footsteps in the hall.

"Sherlock, I'm sure you're awake because that's just how you are. I've got you some take-away, but you're not getting up and you're not leaving this room until I say so. Are we clear?"

_Damn…_ John had gotten better at deduction while he'd been away.

"Oh, doctor's orders?"

"_Strict_ orders."

"Only a fool argues with his doctor." John didn't miss the sarcastic overtones in that.

"Yes, that's true."

"Are you implying something?"

"Outright stating it. You're a bloody genius, but you're an idiot too. I'll bring you a tray."


	38. Chapter 38

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed when he woke up again, not realizing he'd fallen asleep. Weak sunlight filtered through the curtains across the room and a new cup of tea, still steaming faintly, had replaced the cold one from earlier. He noticed his mobile had materialized next to it, and beside that was a newspaper with a small post-it note stuck to the front page. _"You're a headline. Congratulations. –JW"_

Apparently word had finally gotten out that he was both alive and decidedly non-fraudulent. He pocketed the phone and flicked open the paper to read about himself. He was pleased to see that his damned-able nickname did not make an appearance.

_"Sherlock Holmes Alive and Well 1 Year After Death-Defying Fall: Famous Detective Cleared of All Charges". _ It went on with some nonsense explanation of how he'd survived his fall simply by not dying when he hit the ground –_absurd and over-simplified-_ which he attributed to Mycroft's doing. Fortunately, it made no mention of his having returned to London. He had always hated the hordes of squalling idiots that had once surrounded the door to their flat. He wasn't eager to go through that nonsense again. For once, he actually considered thanking Mycroft. He thought better of it. _Don't want it to go to his head, after all._

John knocked on the door a few minutes after he finished the article.

"I've got toast and eggs for you, and before you complain YES you are eating them."

"Going to force-feed me then?"

"If I have to. I have sedatives, Sherlock, don't make me use them."

"That's surprisingly devious of you."

"I'm giving you fair warning, aren't I?"

"You wouldn't really drug me."

"Wouldn't I?"

He ate as instructed.

"You slept most of the day yesterday, I don't know if you remember. You kept yelling at me to come in here, but then you'd be snoring when I did. It was funny for the first 5 or 6 times."

"Please tell me you didn't record that."

"I make no promises. Behave, and any recordings I may or may not have made will not be published."

Sherlock glanced over at him with a faintly approving grin. "Dear god, you're turning into _me_."

"Oh come on now, that's not fair. If I was turning into _you_ I'd have already drugged your tea before I told you about it."

"Point."

John rolled his eyes.

"Eat. I'm going to have a shower and there had better not be toast under the bed when I get back."

"I make no promises."


	39. Chapter 39

_"You know, this is what I love about you." _Sherlock clearly didn't remember saying the words, but John Watson couldn't get them out of his head. _"I'd be lost without my blogger."_

What the hell had that all been about? Sherlock didn't LOVE anything… well except maybe a creative triple-homicide for him to unravel. But he didn't use the word at all – ever –in reference to people. 'Loathing' was a popular choice. He was frequently annoyed by people. But he didn't love them. He didn't feel things that way. At least… not that John was aware of.

He remembered the calmer bit of the conversation, before the realization that he'd been set up to watch Sherlock's 'suicide' had sunk in. _"It was for you." "I had a choice between my life and yours, Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. Seemed like a fairly easy choice-"_

Had he known he'd survive? Or had he just been hoping his usual insane luck would kick in?

_"Seemed like a fairly easy choice-"_

John sighed, glancing at Sherlock's door before heading up the stairs to get dressed.


	40. Chapter 40

"Sherlock?"

No response.

"I know you're not asleep."

"I most certainly am."

"Sherlock-" He peeled the covers back from the lump of sheets that was apparently hiding Sherlock's curly head. He'd somehow managed to turn all of his bedding into a cocoon. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I _was_ thinking, but since you've interrupted me, I suppose I'll have to start over."

"Mmm… Fine." He was headed for the door, when the mass of blankets shifted and a pale thin hand darted out and grabbed his wrist.

"… Wait." Sherlock's face emerged from its nest.

Watson sighed, returning to the bed and sitting down on the end of it, carefully avoiding sitting on one of Sherlock's long, gangly legs.

Thoughtful grey eyes fixed on him and he felt suddenly uneasy. "I can't seem to recall so I'm just going to ask you. What _did_ I say before I lost consciousness the other day? I've been searching my mind palace for hours and I simply can't find it. It's driving me mad."

"You… I- nothing important. Don't worry about it."

"John-…" _Really, you are a terrible actor sometimes…_

"You said…. You said 'I'd be lost without my blogger'." It was the truth… just not all of it.

"And that bothered you?"

"Who said I was bothered?"

"John, you've never been a good liar and I've never been one for patience, especially under present circumstances…"

"I - that part didn't bother me." _Shit. _He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"Mhmm… And what part _did_ exactly?"

"Look, can we not talk about this right now?"

Sherlock gave him a long calculating look.

"Fine." The intense grey stare was diverted out the window. A full-scale sulk appeared to be building.

"Sherlock-"

"I said it's fine."

A long awkward silence followed.

"… If I haven't said it… I'm glad you're alive."

Sherlock turned back to him, something unreadable in his face."… So am I."

On an impulse, John suddenly reached across the bed and wrapped his arms Sherlock's neck, giving him a gentle squeeze. Sherlock stiffened in shock, but John had already released him and fled the room before he could say a word.


	41. Chapter 41

_What was that about? –SH_

_Nothing –JW_

_Nothing? –SH_

_It was just a stupid impulse. Don't worry, I won't make a habit of it – JW_

_Ah. –SH_

_Don't do that. –JW_

_Do what? – SH_

_The 'mysterious' thing. You know I hate that. –JW_

_I'm not wearing my coat, and you can't even see me, so this is not the same. –SH_

_Yes it is. –JW_

_No. It isn't. –SH_

_I'm going to stop replying now – JW_

_No you're not. – SH_

_Yes I am. –JW_

_Too easy. –SH_

_Dammit – JW_

_Aren't you supposed to be sleeping or something? –JW_

_Bored. There's no telly in here and nothing to do. – SH_

_Sleep. – JW_

_Boring – SH_

_Sherlock, I believe I mentioned that I have tranquilizers… - JW_

_That's not really fair. I've been behaving. I even ate my toast as requested. –SH_

_Then what was half of it doing on the floor? –JW_

_Damn. – SH_

_Missed the bin. –SH_

_… - JW_

_That does it. I'm coming down there with pills. – JW_


	42. Chapter 42

_John threatened to make me take tranquilizers-SH_

_Unsurprising.-MH_

_Shut up. -SH_

_Does he know about your problem? –MH_

_Past tense, Mycroft. –SH_

_Answer the question. – MH_

_No. –SH_

_Well, he knows I had one. Not what it was –SH_

_Don't take them –MH_

_Not intending to –SH_

_Do you want me to pick you up? –MH_

_No. I'm staying here. –SH_

_You're certain? –MH_

_More than I have ever been in my life. –SH_

_You know I still have video of your flat, don't you? –MH_

_Yes. Turn it off please. –SH_

_Why? –MH_

_You know why. –SH_

_Don't be vulgar – MH_

_Don't be stupid. –SH_

_Fine. But I expect to hear from you daily if I do this. –MH_

_Done. –SH_


	43. Chapter 43

"Who are you texting?"

"You took your time getting downstairs. I'm not taking any pills, John."

"And I'm not planning to shove them down your throat. I thought they might help you sleep. You're the one who claimed to be so terribly bored."

"I wanted you to come back downstairs. I can't shout very well at the moment."

John sighed, setting his med-kit down on the chair and cracking open the latches. He suppressed a snicker when he noticed Sherlock's eyes had gone wide.

"Don't give me that face. I told you, I'm not going to stuff anything down your throat. I _am_ however going to need to change those bandages. Now lie still." He snapped two sterile latex gloves over his hands.

Sherlock laid back patiently, barely even wincing as the old gauze was pulled off of his side and leg. His face twitched just slightly at the sting of the antiseptic, but otherwise he was a model patient. John eyed him suspiciously, but continued re-dressing the slowly healing wounds in silence.

"Did I ever tell you what Lestrade was looking for with that ridiculous 'drugs bust' of his?" Sherlock's deep voice startled him. John paused, halfway through taping a gauze pad down to Sherlock's boney ribs. He returned to his work.

"No. I assumed you didn't want to."

"You assumed correctly. It was morphine."

"Morphine… I'd have thought cocaine."

"Your bedside manner is astounding."

He began wrapping the graze-wound on Sherlock's calf.

"Sherlock… why are you telling me this?"

"Because I wanted you to know."

"… Oh."

There was silence for a few moments.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm sorry I called you a machine… at Bart's."

"Don't be. You were expected to be angry, that was the point."

"I was. But it was still out of line. I should've known something was up."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Sherlock, those two words have been kicking me in the ass since you jumped."

"John, you don't seem to be understanding me. I intentionally provoked you."

"Would you just let me apologize please?"

"John, why did you hug me yesterday?"

"Why- what are you talking about? I already told you-"

"Yes, but why the impulse?"

"I don't know…Sentiment, I guess."

"Ah…"

_Skin flushed, indicating embarrassment. Avoiding eye contact. Repeatedly attempts to change subject of conversation. Interesting…._

John stood up from where he'd been crouched, peeling off the gloves and tossing them out before turning back to his med-kit to pack up.

"What kind of sentiment?"

"What-?"

"What kind of sentiment caused your impulse?"

"Why all this sudden interest in sentiments? I thought you hated them."

"I'm bored."

"Dear god…" John rubbed his eyes. He wasn't sure he could take another week of this.


	44. Chapter 44

"Why are you avoiding my question, John?"

"Because I've already answered it." John had brought the newspaper into Sherlock's room and they'd been trading off sections all morning. He was also using it as a convenient way to watch and make sure no more toast ended up on the floor or in the bin without having to endure Sherlock's usual intent staring. He knew it was intended to put him off, and it always worked. At least with the paper up between them, he could pretend not to notice.

"No you haven't. Your answer is much too general. It's hardly scientific, which makes it unhelpful."

"Sentiments aren't. Eat your eggs, would you? They'll only get cold if you push them all over the plate."

"Aren't what?"

"Scientific. Eat your eggs."

"Yes, thank you so much for pointing that out, however would I have reached that understanding without your help."

John dipped the newspaper long enough to shoot Sherlock a glare which was received with annoying cheerfulness.

"Eggs. Now, Sherlock."

There was a long silence that he just knew was filled with Sherlock thinking something devious to amuse himself. A restless genius should be banned by the Geneva Convention…

"And if I were to refuse to eat them?"

"I'd be forced to come over there and make you, wouldn't I?"

"Alright. Do it then."

_Well… that was unexpected…_

He lowered the newspaper again, leveling his best stern look at Sherlock who smiled serenely back. "You're worse than a primary-schooler, d'you know that?"

"Still refusing."

"Oh for god's sake…"

* * *

Sherlock ate obediently once John made good on his threat to force-feed him. He was feeling hungrier lately anyway, now that he'd been getting proper rest, and he knew his brother and his flat-mate would both flay Lestrade alive if he had offered Sherlock a case before he was mobile, so there was no need to worry about digestion slowing him down at work.

He'd more wanted to see if he could goad John into it than anything else. Sherlock had a strong suspicion he knew exactly what had moved John Watson to do what he had, but he wouldn't be content without proof.

Sherlock waited for the exact moment that John stooped down to pick up the now empty plate, placing the man's head in exactly the correct position. With one quick, fluid motion, he had his arms around the doctor's neck and gave it one quick, gentle squeeze before letting go. As expected, John dropped the plate and nearly fell over backward, catching himself on a chair. His face had definitely acquired a deep flush. The plate shattered, but John seemed not to have noticed.

"What.. what was-"

"Thank you, that answers my question quite nicely."


	45. Chapter 45

_I'm still not dead. Happy? –SH_

_Good for you. I was hoping for something a bit more detailed –MH_

_I made John fall over and break a plate this morning. –SH_

_… Sherlock, do try not to be yourself now and again. –MH_

_It was necessary for an experiment I'm conducting –SH_

_I shudder to think. –MH_

_He's coming back in. –SH_

_Sherlock, do try not to break your friends. –MH_

_Shut up-SH_

John set down the boxed dinner in front of Sherlock without looking at him and left the room, closing the door behind him with a faintly audible sigh. He didn't say a word. Sherlock watched him come and go. He was still flushed. Odd.

_What are common causes of flushed skin? –SH_

_Are you ill? –MH_

_No. And not about me. –SH_

_ What did you put in his tea?–MH_

_Nothing. –SH_

_Sherlock, what did you dose the poor man with? –MH_

_I just returned a gesture he made a few days ago. Now he won't speak to me. –SH_

_Oh, now that is interesting.-MH_

_Yes. It is. Thoughts?-SH_

_What did you do?-MH_

_Hug –SH_

_You? –MH_

_YOU hugged another human being?-MH_

_Is it the End Times already? –MH_

_Shut up and help or I will stop texting you. –SH_

_Fine. John, I assume? –MH_

_Of course. –SH_

_Talk to him. –MH_

_And that will help? –SH_

_Just don't be yourself. –MH_

_Hilarious –SH_


	46. Chapter 46

_Come in here please-SH_

_Busy –JW_

_No you're not, I can hear the telly –SH_

_I'm not coming in right now –JW_

_Is this because I wouldn't eat, or because I hugged you? –SH_

He waited several minutes with no reply. Alright, then… time for slightly more drastic measures.

_If you don't come in here, I will come out there –SH_

_Don't you dare. –JW_

_Then come here and talk to me –SH_

_No –JW_

_Alright, I'll be out momentarily-SH_

_Dammit, fine. -JW_

_I'll be there in a moment –JW_

_Excellent-SH_

_Thank you –SH_

_Git –JW_

* * *

John paused just outside Sherlock's bedroom door, trying to mentally prepare himself. It wasn't working.

He sighed, scruffing a hand wearily through his hair. This was going to be the most awkward night of his life, he could already tell. Once Sherlock got a hold of an idea he liked, he'd worry it around for hours, like a dog with a chew-toy, and nothing could convince him to let go of it until he was satisfied.

_"You know, this is what I love about you."_

Yes… that was dreadfully helpful. Now his face was redder than ever.

_Well… no sense standing in the hallway all night. _It was time to get it over with.

* * *

"Good, there you are. I was wondering how long you intended to stand outside."

"What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you; I believe I made that clear."

"Yes, fine, about what?"

"You wanted an explanation for my 'death' did you not? It is one of several things I've been meaning to discuss with you. Given I'm grievously lacking in anything else interesting to do, now seems an excellent time to finish the conversation."

"-Alright…." John wasn't sure what Sherlock was playing at, but he pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable anyway. He was relieved to put off the 'sentiments' conversation a while longer and he still wasn't sure what the hug had been about. Still, Sherlock was being remarkably… non-irritating. It was almost worse.

"So, please remind me, as I'm still rather hazy, where did I leave off?"

"I remember you told me it was all staged- " He flushed slightly more, remembering how badly he'd reacted to that bit of information "And you said something about you choosing between your life and ours… What _was _that bit about, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty. All of it was, really. He really was brilliant, the bastard. I almost missed one of the most important threads of the whole mess – _yes_, I made a mistake, stop smirking. It happens on rare occasion." John quickly put on his most passively-interested face with a concentrated effort. It was hard not to laugh at the edge of wounded pride in Sherlock's voice, despite everything else.

"He figured out a lot of things I didn't intend to share with anyone. I wasn't his only target, no, just the main attraction."

Sherlock's eyes had taken on a wild, unfocused look, but his voice poured into the room unabated. "Everything fell into place at that Riley woman's flat. He was going to target everything and everyone I cared about until I gave him what he wanted. He knew we'd find him there, he'd planned it. You didn't play along, didn't believe him. So the next logical step would have been -" He paused, eyes still locked on ceiling as if he were watching the scene play out in front of him all over again.

"I had to end the game before the stakes escalated, which meant I had to play along." He seemed to snap back to himself abruptly, turning back to face his friend. "I arranged for Molly to call you away from the hospital. She was to invent something shocking and urgent. You'd get angry at me; you'd leave me there alone. You'd be out of danger until it was over…or at least I thought so at the time."

"At the time…? Sherlock nothing happened to us. Well, not nothing… but- "

"There were assassins trailing you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade." Sherlock cut him off impatiently. John's head snapped up, eyes wide. This was news... "Moriarty could have called them off, and I thought for a moment I had succeeded in forcing him to do so, but…" He mimed a gun to the head. "After that, there was only one way to call them off, which you saw. I'd been somewhat expecting things to go badly, but there was only a 52.67% chance of my back-up plan succeeding without major injury. It was roughly 75% certain I'd survive, so there was at least that."

"You planned to jump?"

"I planned for the event in case I had to, yes. I was hoping to avoid it, and I won't claim it was an enjoyable experience." They both glanced involuntarily at the friction-burn scar on his forearm.

"So… when you were saying all that stuff about how you were a fake-"

"I was putting on a show, yes. Part of the unfortunate requirement of my position."

"This is going to sound stupid –"

"No surprise there." That earned him a glare. John chose to ignore the smirk on his friend's face.

"Were you- you sounded like you were about to fall apart up there. I've never heard sound you like that, not even at Baskerville… Was that all part of the show?"

Sherlock's eyes were pained when they met his. The detective smiled faintly.

"No. That was entirely involuntary." Sherlock's wild, curly hair flattened out against his pillow as he dropped back against it. He sounded tired when he spoke again. "I was uncertain if I'd ever see you again and there were never any 100% guarantees that the assassins wouldn't act regardless of what I did. I had no idea if I was saying goodbye to you for the last time, and –" He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "-that terrified me."

John watched him in silence, processing all of this.

"I saw you at the funeral, though. I was quite touched." Sherlock was looking at him again, the pained smile still faintly touching his lips. "And at the cemetery… "

"So… you heard everything I said." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I had a great deal of difficulty restraining myself from doing what you asked. But Moriarty had fail-safes. Of course he did - the man always had another plan. I had to eliminate those fail-safe measures first, or none of you would be safe."

"And you've done that?"

"I wouldn't have risked coming here if I hadn't."

"And that's why you looked like hell when you showed up."

"Assassins are a notoriously violent lot, yes."

"I would've helped you. If you'd told me... I'd have backed you up."

"Yes, and then both of us would look like hell, you might've been killed, and no one would be here to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson, who would undoubtedly be targeted in your absence."

"Speaking of …Should I tell her you're here?"

Sherlock's eyebrow shot up"… You mean you haven't already?"

"Sherlock, you came stumbling in here with a hole shot through you, bruised all to hell, and generally looking a lot like you actually had just crawled out of a grave. Not to mention, you were out cold for half the first few days you were back. "

"And?"

John rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"_AND_ she's already attended your funeral. I thought it might be kinder to wait until you didn't still look half-dead to tell her. You know how she worried about you. She's been staying with her sister the last few days anyway, and I don't want to interrupt her holiday." '_And I'm not quite ready to share you again, yet, either.' _He didn't add.

Sherlock frowned.

"And when do I have your _permission_ to inform her?"

He chose to ignore Sherlock's sarcasm. "When she gets home on Tuesday, you should be able to move out to the living room now and again. I'll help you and you can tell her then. Alright?"- and the annoyed pouting he was now doing.

"Mm… fine. Now, on to other matters."

_Dammit._


	47. Chapter 47

Sherlock's phone chirped abruptly, and John could have fainted with relief at the distraction. Sherlock glanced at the phone and raised an eyebrow. Something interesting, then...

_Noticed this while reviewing video feed. Thought it might interest you. -MH_  
_1 attachment_

"Oh, now that is intriguing..."  
"What is?"  
Sherlock opened the attached video without answering.

* * *

_"Am I?"_ The tiny Sherlock on the screen looked exhausted. No wonder John had looked at him that way, he really had looked like death in the flesh...  
_"You are, even if I have to carry you there myself."_

"Wait, is that... is that from inside the flat?!" John blurted out, his face flushing as realization set in. Things were about to get significantly more awkward in the room...

_"You know, this is what I love about you."_ The tiny, weary Sherlock was saying. John's face was hidden in the video, but the sudden stiffening of his posture indicated his reaction clearly enough. _"I'd be lost without my blogger."_  
He watched his own head fall back in a faint and saw John surge forward, trying to rouse him, then frantically checking vitals.  
The video cut out.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the phone, surprised at how his pain had loosened his tongue without him even realizing it. This certainly clarified quite a few things... He glanced up at John who was staring at him open mouthed.


	48. Chapter 48

"Where... how... Is your brother recording the flat again?"  
"He was, yes..." His eyes returned to his phone.

_Very interesting, indeed. Explains much. -SH_  
_You're welcome -MH_

"So that's what made you uncomfortable?" John startled at Sherlock's voice. He looked away, his face crimson and miserable. "I said that I loved something about you, and that bothered you." John continued to study the floor with interest. "Why?"  
"Why was Mycroft recording the flat, Sherlock?"  
"If I answer that honestly, will you answer me the same?"  
"... -Yes."  
"I asked him to."  
"You... what?!" That got the doctor's attention. They locked eyes for a moment. Sherlock's expression was a picture of calm.  
"I asked him to." He repeated. His voice was steady, but there was something buried under it that sounded weak and fragile. "I was... worried about you. You seemed to be struggling with my 'death'. It was both flattering and painful to watch. I wanted to be sure you wouldn't do anything-" He paused, a flicker of something passing over his face too quickly to be registered, "-drastic."  
"So you asked your brother to spy on me?!" John couldn't decide if he was more embarrassed or angry. Anger was currently winning.  
"No. I asked him to let _me_ spy on you." He held up a hand to stop the protest that was certainly following "Yes, I'm a horrid selfish bastard, we've covered that already. I don't regret it. You. Worried. Me."  
"You never worry. About anything." Watson regarded him suspiciously. This was decidedly un-Sherlock-like...  
"I worry about you."  
John fell silent.  
"...Now I believe you owe _me_ an honest answer. Stop dodging the question, John. Why does this bother you? And don't tell me 'I'm not gay', because that's hardly the point!"  
To his surprise, John sank down to sit on the floor, curling up over his knees. His eyes were pained and confused when he finally looked up.  
"Why do you think?" He asked in a small, tired voice..  
"If I knew, I wouldn't have to ask." Sherlock's tone was surprisingly gentle and quiet. It was so unlike his usual bombastic manner that it spurred John into speaking without thinking.  
"Sherlock- you saw me every day - _apparently_ - while you were gone. You saw what I was like. I couldn't function a _single_ day without you here. Not one. I _fell apart_." He drew in a deep breath and curled further into himself. "I went to your grave every weekend. I spent my whole day wishing you'd just come back and dying a little inside when you weren't here waiting for me when I got home."  
"John-"  
"God, Sherlock, _I think I'm in love with you_!" The words tumbled out of him before he could stop himself. He gave a half-hearted, humorless laugh, dropping his face into his hands. "And I bloody well know what that means!" Sherlock Holmes had already point-blank rejected him once, and to his knowledge the man had never formed a relationship that even approached friendship before they met. He didn't hold out much hope.

Sherlock stared at him, trying to decide how to respond. This was usually the part of any sentimental situation at which he accidentally said something entirely inappropriate and John gave him 'the look'. This situation felt a bit too delicate for that, but silence felt too cold.

"John-..." He weighed his words carefully, "I will admit I am possibly the least qualified man on earth to discuss sentiments of any kind. … But, delirious or not, I meant what I said. I _was_ lost without my blogger. I couldn't go a single damned day without checking in on you." John still refused to make eye-contact. "I was prepared to die for your safety if that is what needed to be done, John. How many people do you suppose I care enough about, that I would step off of a building to protect them? I assure you, it is a very, very short list."

"Just... Sherlock, I know you care about me. I'm grateful that I'm your friend... You're my best friend... I... But.. that's not the same as-"  
"Do you want to hear me say it?"  
"What?"  
"I love you, John Watson. I don't know how or why, but I know that this is true." John stared at him, as if waiting for some kind of trick to be revealed.  
"You're serious..." He weighed the thought in his mind, unable to believe it could possibly be true. "You. … you love me?"  
"Have done for some time. I wasn't expecting you to be so... happy about it though."  
Unexpectedly, John started laughing. It started low and muffled and built into nearly hysterical peals. Sherlock couldn't help himself. He started in too.  
"Oh my god, we're the biggest pair of idiots on the bloody planet! Regular romance novel garbage, that's us!" John was practically rolling on the floor.  
Before they knew it, they were both collapsed into helpless laughter.


	49. Chapter 49

Sherlock was comfortably arranged on the sofa, a blanket spread out over his lap and cold-case file in hand, when Mrs. Hudson arrived downstairs. She fluttered around excitedly, setting down her bags and hurrying up the stairs.  
"John! John! You won't believe what I saw at the station! It's in the newspaper! There's been a miracle! It's Sherlock, he's-"  
"Right here. Hello Mrs. Hudson, you're looking well."  
She shrieked and whirled around at the sound of the baritone voice and the next moment was flinging her arms around his neck with motherly joy. John leaned against the kitchen wall, watching them, and smiled. Mrs. Hudson clucked over Sherlock, busily scolding him for scaring her half to death, and complaining about how thin and underfed he looked. Her eyebrows shot up when she noticed the new scar across his face. John raised an eyebrow at him. _See? What did I tell you?_ Sherlock ignored him.  
"Oh, Sherlock, what's all this? And what are you doing lying down at this time of the day? Are you not well?"  
"Sherlock's had a bit of a rough year, Mrs. Hudson. It's... catching up to him. I've got him resting for now." John interjected before Sherlock could bluntly lay out the full list of his injuries. There was no need to shock the poor woman twice in one day. "He'll be fully up and about in a week if he behaves, which he won't, so I give him two."  
"I'm behaving perfectly well, _Doctor_."  
"Mmm... I give that an hour, at best."  
"So little faith in me. I'm hurt, John."  
"You're dramatic, is what you are."  
"Well, I know what you need. A hot cuppa and some nice biscuits will have you feeling much better, I'm sure! I'll be right up with some, just you wait!" She let go of Sherlock, giving him a maternal kiss on the check. She paused on her way out to take John's hands and squeeze them, beaming, before scurrying downstairs to start the tea. Life was almost starting to return to normal.  
John caught Sherlock's eye. Sherlock shrugged and grinned. No. Not normal. Better than normal.

* * *

_**Author's note: There will be one - two more chapters to wrap this up. This isn't quite the end yet :)**_


	50. Chapter 50

Sherlock had been up and about for two weeks and was already throwing himself full-tilt into his work. From the moment John had given him the ok to contact Lestrade, he'd been a blur of motion; running around London after all manner of criminals and getting up to as much trouble as ever. John was pleased to see that he didn't appear to be suffering from any residual pain, and the limp had disappeared. He still wasn't eating properly, but John had long ago learned to force high-nutrition and heavy portioned meals into Sherlock where he could. It wasn't really what he'd call a healthy diet, but it kept the man functional, and that was at least something.  
John was sitting on the end of the sofa, typing up a blog entry for the two cases they'd solved over the last few days. He was debating whether he ought to write up two separate posts or just lump them together, when Sherlock dropped down next to him, apparently deep in thought.

"How's the leg?"  
"Fine."  
"Good." There was a comfortable silence between them for a few minutes.

He was just about to ask what Sherlock was so engrossed in when he felt the sudden weight of the man's head droppping onto his shoulder. The gesture was almost timid, as if asking for permission. Curly hair tickled his neck. The grey eyes were searching him for a reaction.  
He smiled, amused and slightly touched. Sherlock never asked. He simply did. That he wanted permission was a definite change. He reached out and pulled Sherlock close into his side. He heard the soft whuff of held breath being released and he felt the man beside him relax considerably. He could have sworn Sherlock was almost purring...  
"Comfortable?"  
"Very."  
"Good."  
John resumed his post, typing awkwardly with one hand, the other resting on Sherlock's hip.  
"Really, John, your titles are getting worse every-"  
"Leave it or you sit alone."  
"... Fine." Sherlock's face nestled into the base of his neck, and John soon found himself humming contentedly. Somehow it had never felt quite this nice when he'd sat side by side with a girlfriend. He hadn't known then what he was missing.  
He submitted the post and closed the computer, uncertain if Sherlock was asleep or just dredging out his mind-palace. He found he didn't much care. They were close and comfortable, and that was all that mattered. He spent the rest of the evening there, doing absolutely nothing but enjoying the warm, contented feeling of Sherlock Homles pressed up against his side. As far as John Watson was concerned, sitting there, curled up with the man he loved, life could not possibly be better.


End file.
